


The Wolf and the Bard

by paintingraves (kallistob)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, Fighting, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Mild torture, Monsters, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Quests, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whump, Witch Curses, Wolf!Geralt, whos afraid of the big bad wolf? certainly not jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22670617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/pseuds/paintingraves
Summary: If he didn’t die, the ballad resulting from this fantastical encounter might be his best work to date.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 226
Kudos: 867





	1. The White Wolf

There is a white wolf following Jaskier. 

The beast is huge, its paws spanning the width of Jaskier’s stomach, its mouth full of sharpened teeth. 

Jaskier has no doubts that the force of its bite, should it decide to attack, could snap him in half. The wolf’s eye are the color of molten gold. When Jaskier addresses it, it speaks in low growls and cavernous rumbles. It has decided to stick to Jaskier's side. The bard finds he is okay with that. 

-

This started, as stories often do, on the night of a full moon. 

After a few months of singing in small villages, Jaskier the bard had left the lovely little region of Posada and was heading South-West, to Vengerberg. From there he would go to Temeria, reach Wizima, and then his final destination - Oxenfurt. Oxenfurt was always the place he came back to, his anchorage after months spent traveling the Continent. 

The minstrel traveled light : he had his precious lute, a beauty, kept safe in its case; he had his coin pouch, a waterskin and, in a shoulder bag, some food as well as a thick cloak to face any changes in the weather. He also, because he took care of his appearance, had a bottle of scented oil, soap, and some minted toothpaste. 

Usually, Jaskier did not undertake any journey that would last more than a two days’ walk. He was not a fan of sleeping in the wild under the stars; he liked his comfort, thank you very much. He liked having a roof over his head, food and drink in his belly, and a warm bed to sleep in (with some good company, if he was lucky). However, his bardic lifestyle demanded he be on the move all the time. So Jaskier traveled, always seeking out villages, going from market town to market town, from inn to inn and he always managed to have his standards met. If he was short of coin when he arrived in said localities, then he would sing and entertain and earn enough to at least keep himself fed. If he hadn’t enough for a room, he would try to charm his way into someone’s bed, or just sleep in the barn with the horses, lying on hay. Though that had only happened once, and Jaskier had vowed it would never happen again. Worst night of his life. Fortunately, all his writing and composing and traveling was starting to pay off; after five years, Jaskier’s name (and his songs) was slowly but surely becoming well known in the Continent, and nowadays, he had not problem earning his keep. He was immensely proud of himself for that. 

Let us go back to the present : night has fallen. 

The next village was still a day away, and Jaskier had strayed off the road and decided to set up camp in a little clearing. The moon shone, basking the bard in a eerie light as he ate his dinner - dried ham and bread. Jaskier licked his fingers clean, and huddled closer to the fire. It was starting to die, the embers emitted a warm, hypnotizing glow. Luckily, the grass in the clearing was high and thick enough to act as a thin mattress; Jaskier thought that maybe he wouldn’t be having such a terrible night after all. He used his bag, with the cloak inside, as a makeshift pillow, and lied down on his back in the grass, looking up at the sky. Thousands of stars sparkled above him. With his hands on his belly, Jaskier slowly relaxed. A lot of thoughts whirled around in his head, then progressively quieted down as his breathing deepened. He doesn’t know when he falls asleep. 

-

He was having a very niiice dream. In it, the innkeeper’s daughter, Rosanna, was kissing him, and guiding his hands to touch her large bosom. Jaskier did, marveling at the size of her breasts ; and complimented her, saying that he had had his fair share of women, but none could quite compare to her beauty. Rosanna had a pearly laugh, and her lips tasted like cherry. He deepened the kiss, and she moaned. Then she started kissing his jaw, and trailing her lips down his neck. She licked him. She licked him all over his face, which was not arousing. Jaskier was getting confused. Rosanna’s breath smelled foul. He woke up, sensing something was wrong; half-asleep still, he blindly pushed ‘Rosanna’ away from him, mumbling at her to stop. 

A low, threatening growl was his answer. 

Fear - unbridled terror - seized him. Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. Cold shivers ran down his spine. He dared not open his eyes, for fear of seeing what kind of monster had found him there, defenseless, and decided to use him as its plaything. The creature had gone away, its weight lifted from Jaskier’s body, but Jaskier could still feel its presence. There was another growl. 

“Oh, god,” Jaskier whimpered, his limbs locking up in fear. “Please don’t kill me.” 

He opened his eyes. Then immediately wished he hadn’t. 

There was a fucking _wolf,_ visible in the moonlight, sitting there by the remains of Jaskier’s fire. The wolf's fur was as pale as snow. It seemed to glow with an ethereal aura, like a forest spirit come to steal Jaskier away. The bard whimpered.

The wolf tilted its head to the right, pricking its ears. It was staring at Jaskier unblinkingly with clever golden eyes. The beast was majestic. It was _huge_ , for starters, bigger than a direwolf, at least three times the size of a common mutt. It wasn’t nearly as tall as a horse, but it was a near thing. Jaskier swallowed and stayed very, very still. The wolf could no doubt smell his fear. This was a beast whose hide would make any hunter proud. Jaskier was no hunter, he was a bard with a lute and poetic words to defend himself, which the wolf would be indifferent to. He wondered why he wasn’t dead yet, why he had woken up to the wolf licking his face and not feasting on his insides. Perhaps the animal wasn’t hungry? 

“Please…” Jaskier said softly, his voice trembling. He was trying to be soothing. “Please go away…I have nothing for you…”

The wolf tilted its head to the other side. Then it plopped down on the grass on its haunches, opened its mouth and yawned. Jaskier gulped and might have pissed himself a little at the sight of razor sharp, impressive canines. The wolf licked its chops, then blinked slowly at Jaskier. Its tongue was lolling out of its mouth. It looked like it was laughing at him. Jaskier took offense at that, his fear abetting a little. The beast didn’t seem aggressive, which was puzzling, to say the least. This was no domestic dog, it was _the scariest fucking wolf_ Jaskier had ever seen! Yet it did not seem to want to maim him. 

The wolf emitted a low rumble. He was staring at Jaskier intently. 

“Uh… good boy?” Jaskier tried. He was sweating. The wolf snorted. Jaskier could swear it rolled its eyes at him. “Are you a werewolf?” he asked, emboldened. If he didn’t die, the song resulting from this fantastical encounter might be his best work to date. 

He very slowly sat up and crossed his legs. The wolf didn’t react to the change in posture, and Jaskier started to relax. With a finger, he discreetly felt for the dagger he kept strapped around his ankle. It was there. Good. Should the wolf suddenly change its placid attitude to one more becoming of a wild animal, at least Jaskier now stood a chance of defending himself. “I was under the impression that werewolves were much uglier creatures. But you… You are… Very handsome, aren’t you?” 

The wolf snorted again. It curled into a ball, put its huge head on its front paws and closed its eyes. Jaskier was effectively being dismissed, which - _rude_. 

“So you just wanted a nice place to sleep for the night?” he grumbled. “Well I was there first, Wolfy boy. You had better not wake me up again. Gods, tomorrow when you’re gone I’ll probably think this was all a dream.” 

The wolf rumbled. It sounded vaguely like a “hmmm.” 

“Not very talkative, are you? Of course not, you’re a wolf. Why am I talking to a wolf in the middle of the night. Have I finally lost it? Am I perhaps short of a marble? Did the sun hit me too hard this afternoon? I should probably give you a name, just to remember this encounter,” Jaskier rambled on. “Wolfy doesn’t sound good in a song, it’s like you’re an old lady’s pet… It doesn’t do you justice. The Great White Wolf... “

Jaskier kept ranting until the wolf finally emitted another growl, sounding exasperated. Jaskier squeaked and went silent. But how was he ever supposed to get a wink of sleep again when there was a huge murder machine sleeping right next to him?! How?! 

He could not, that’s how. 

Jaskier lay awake, his eyes wide open, and finally fell asleep, exhausted, sometime around the first light of dawn. He fervently hoped that when he would wake up again all of this would turn out to have been a dream. A very vivid one, to be sure - he could still feel the ghost of the wolf’s strong licks on his face, and shuddered - but a _dream._ It was the only explanation. 

Which was why, when Jaskier blearily opened his eyes the next day, unable to sleep anymore because of the sun on his face and the chatter of the forest birds, and he turned his head and saw absolutely zero big white wolf standing there, he breathed out a huge sigh of relief. Good. A dream! This had been a dream! 

(He consciously ignored the round-shaped ident in the grass a couple meters away from him, that looked _exactly_ like a big dog had curled up there into a ball and slept. Nope! It was a dream.)

Jaskier started gathering his things while whistling. Today was going to be a good day. He would leave this clearing, find the road again, walk to the next village and resume his life as _normal_ . Singing and making coin. He would compose a song about this strange dreamy encounter and label it _The White Wolf_ , and it would be _so_ successful. It could even be his shot at winning the annual bardic competition next autumn at the castle of Vartburg. Yes. Sounded like a brilliant plan. 

He heard a loud bark. 

“Fuuuuck me.” Jaskier closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He stood frozen. Perhaps if he wished it hard enough, the world would rearrange itself to his liking and there wouldn’t be a big scary wolf close to him… nudging at Jaskier’s hand with a wet nose? Well it was awfully familiar this morning, wasn't it? 

“Damn it,” he cursed again, and faced reality. 

The wolf stood in front of him, its head held high and proud. It barked again. Jaskier gave a little scream, startled, and fell on his arse, his hand over his heart. In the light of day, the wolf was even more impressive. Its white pelt shimmered in the sunlight; its eyes twinkled with something like amusement. Just like the night prior, the unthreatening behavior was more fitting of a domestic dog than a wild animal. The wolf lowered its head, and Jaskier only just noticed now the dead rabbit at its feet. It nudged the dead animal towards Jaskier with its nose. 

Was the… was the wolf offering him _food?_ Had he really just gone hunting for Jaskier's breakfast? 

“Err,” Jaskier said in a strangled voice. “Thank you?” Trust a wolf to be more civil and caring towards him than most humans he’d met in his life. But this situation was really strange. The wolf was obviously a magical being. Jaskier would sooner eat his beloved feathered hat than accept the fact such beasts could exist in nature. 

If the wolf was a mythical creature, then what was it? And if it wasn’t one… Well, in Jaskier’s limited knowledge there weren’t many options left. The wolf could be the result of a rare genetic mutation, like gold dragons (though those were rumored to be just legends). It could be something new altogether, something unheard of. Or… (and Jaskier leaned towards that more common, plausible theory) the wolf was the result of a curse. Someone, for some reason, had perhaps cursed a normal wolf to grow into _this_ , or _-_ someone had cursed a man to turn into a wolf! Jaskier felt like that last theory was the right one - it would, at least, explain the wolf’s odd behavior. If a man was indeed trapped in there, then… Fuck. Jaskier couldn’t be expected to just stand there and do nothing. It wouldn’t be human. He would hate to be stuck himself in the body of a wolf! If it was within his power to help this poor, cursed man, then he would do so. 

Cheered up, Jaskier accepted the offering the wolf was giving him. On all fours, he cautiously picked up the rabbit. The wolf, seemingly satisfied, sat back down on its haunches. Jaskier eyed him pensively. He needed to confirm his theory. He stood up, resisting the urge to flee when faced with the sheer size of the beast. The wolf still loomed over him, even when Jaskier was standing up. He was not tall, but he was a perfectly normal size for a man his age. He shuddered to imagine what the actual man lurking beneath the beast would look like. He was probably huge as well, like two meters high, and… scary. 

Jaskier sat down on a log, unsheathed his dagger and proceeded to skin the rabbit. He wasn’t really hungry, but his reserves were thinning and he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. This would sustain him for the major part of the day, and tonight he would reach the next village. He didn’t know if the wolf would follow him this far. If he did, then Jaskier would run with his first theory and try to… find a mage or a healer or anyone working with magic and ask them for advice. He wanted to help the wolf. The wolf had helped him - was helping him. It hadn’t killed him. That was something. 

The wolf, sitting there, observed him the whole time. It was a bit unnerving. Usually Jaskier liked to chatter, even to himself, but this was weird. An image flashed through his mind - if he were to throw a stick away, would the wolf run to pick it up and bring it back with his tail wagging? The image was ridiculous for an animal this size. Jaskier snickered. The wolf tilted his head confusedly, which made Jaskier laugh even louder. 

Luckily, he had picked up enough firewood the night before that he didn’t need to go on another search through the forest for some. Jaskier easily got a small fire going, skewered the rabbit and left it to roast. Now was the time to ask that wolf some Questions. 

“Nod if you can understand me?” Jaskier said to start. The wolf blinked. “Look, this will work better if you cooperate. I have a few theories on what you are but I need you to confirm them. Nod if you can understand me. Or bark. Wag your tail. Whatever you feel comfortable with.” 

The wolf barked. Jaskier jumped at the sound. “ _Holy shit_ \- wait, are you serious? You can understand me?” Another bark. “Oh, wow, but that’s… shit, man, are you okay?” Jaskier stood up and walked over to the wolf, who stared at him with unblinking golden eyes. He held out a trembling hand, drawing closer and closer until his fingers encountered soft fur. The wolf closed its eyes and leaned into the touch. “Ho - holy shit,” Jaskier said breathlessly. “Oh, man… I’m so, so sorry, Wolfy. Have you been cursed?” The wolf emitted a low rumble, which Jaskier decided to interpret as an affirmative. “Fuck… How did you get yourself in that situation?” The wolf’s ear flicked. Jaskier was fascinated. 

He stepped back. “Are you a man?” he asked. 

The wolf regarded him for a moment, as if evaluating whether Jaskier could be trusted. Then he slowly, slowly nodded. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier said eloquently. He felt like that summed up the situation quite well. The wolf huffed, seeming to agree. Jaskier clenched and unclenched his fists nervously, unsure as to what to do. The best thing for now probably was to eat, and then they’d decide on a course of action. 

He went back to his log and his rabbit, inviting the wolf to come closer. He slowly cooked his meal, turning the rabbit over every few minutes. It was starting to smell good, fat sizzling appetizingly over the meat. His stomach rumbled. “Have you eaten?” He asked the wolf, who inclined his head again and licked its chops. “R - right… Gods, I can’t wait to hear your story, it’s probably fascinating - you were cursed, weren’t you? Oh, I _need_ to hear more about this. Who are you? Why were you cursed? Who would do this to you? And why are you here? Are you traveling, like me? Perhaps searching for the mage who cursed you to break the spell? Oh, oh - perhaps they sent you on an epic quest and you have tasks to accomplish in order to break the curse? Or is it more romantic? Do you have to find true love to break the curse?” 

Jaskier was nearly bouncing. All of these options made for _excellent_ ballad material. He used his knife to cut off the rabbit's hind leg at the hip joint, and started eating it with a moan of satisfaction. “You must have a name, Mysterious Cursed Man," he continued. "I can’t keep calling you ‘wolfy’ in my head forever. Tell me if I’m hot or cold. Your name is…” Jaskier pointed his rabbit leg at him. “It’s…Olaf.” The wolf bared his teeth. “Okay, okay, not Olaf. Errm… Stefan?” A low growl. “Damn it, you’re not helping, you know that?” A whine. “Robert? Gabriel? Jakub?” The wolf rose up and started trotting away, annoyed. 

“No, wait, come back! I’m sorry if I vexed you!” The bard laughed. “Tell you what, I’ll introduce myself. My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, also known as the bard Jaskier throughout the Continent. You may have heard some of my songs before. _High in the halls of the kings who are gone_ _…_ no? Rude, that’s one of my best tales. I suppose I’ll just have to call you Wolf, then. Wolfy?” 

The animal was gone from his sight, having disappeared behind the bushes surrounding the clearing. Jaskier felt a bit disappointed (had he really driven the animal away with his chattering? or was it something else altogether?) ; then he shrugged and took hold of the stick he’d skewered the rabbit on. Somehow, his gut feeling told him there was no need to feel worried, as if he knew the animal - the man - would come back. He probably just got fed up with Jaskier’s babbling, and he wouldn’t be the first one. Jaskier talked a _lot._ That’s just who he was, since childhood, and most people found him tiring and difficult to follow. The bard wolfed down the rest of his meal (the rabbit was delicious) until his belly was full, then used a bit of water from his waterskin to clean his face. It was more than time to leave. 

He stood up, slung his lute case over his shoulder, then his bag. He tied the waterskin to his belt and set off again, walking in the road’s direction. He had the feeling he was being observed, although the wolf was nowhere to be seen. Jaskier smiled, and started whistling a lovely tune. 

“I’m going to Vengerberg, in case you’re interested in keeping me company again!” He yelled at the edge of the forest. Before him stretched the sunny, sandy road, in a line parallel to the woods, with Posada to his left and Vengerberg to his right. Jaskier jumped above the dry river bed separating the road from the forest. Opposite from it was a vast wheat field; the ears moving slightly in the light blowing breeze. It looked like it was going to be a hot day. Jaskier went right, continuing to whistle. He was, for some reason, in high spirits. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this before everyone started posting a hundred wolf!Geralt fics in the same week?? so anyway here have my version too 
> 
> hope you enjoyed reading ! more to come ! <3


	2. Geralt of Rivia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Geralt of Rivia,”_ Jaskier read. “Hmm. Well, quite frankly, I prefered Olaf."

He didn’t see the wolf again until he paused at midday to eat a few dried figs. The sun was scorching hot; under his doublet, Jaskier was sweating like a pig. He took it off, rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows and fanned himself in an unsuccessful attempt to cool down. 

He felt like the road had been the same for miles, with absolutely no change in scenery except for the fact that the wheat field had turned into an oats field. He was still following the edge of the forest, where he assumed the wolf to be hiding. Speaking of the devil - as he was cutting a fig in half, the branches in his line of sight started to move, and the wolf emerged from the forest and walked over to Jaskier. 

The bard would never get used to the sight of him - it commanded respect. “Hello again." He waved in greeting. “Are you done sulking?” 

Jaskier held out a hand, and the wolf bumped his cold wet nose against it. 

“Great!" He said enthusiastically. "Because I have more questions! Am I the first person you met since you became a wolf?” The animal shook his head negatively with a whine. “Oh - okay…” Jaskier pondered this. “Do you maybe know who cursed you? Yes? You do? That’s good! That's great - do you… know where to find them and how to perhaps guide me there? I could charm them and plead for your cause, assuming it is someone you pissed off…think they’d be willing to.. de-curse you? Un-curse you? Err." He frowned. “What’s the proper term… Right, _lift_ the curse?” 

The wolf didn’t reply. 

“You don’t know?” 

It whimpered again. 

“Okay, sorry, sorry - sensitive topic, I get that, I have a few of those,” Jaskier said quickly. “What was your plan then, Wolf, to lift the curse? To continue to roam the woods and scare the hell out of helpless, handsome travelers in the hopes that one, like me, might be willing to help you?” The wolf stared at him and flattened his ears against his head. He looked saddened, which made Jaskier feel guilty for some reason, like he'd kicked an overgrown puppy. 

“I see.” He finished his figs. “Look... I don’t know you, but you were nice to me back in the forest, so if you're willing to stick around - I’ll try to help you. We'll find a way to turn you back into a man, I promise. And perhaps when you’re…” He waved his hand vaguely. “Yourself again, we could be friends. I don’t really have friends. I have lovers, ladies, acquaintances. And rivals, like that prick Valdo Marx...” The wolf growled and started walking away from him. “You know, you really should have more words in your vocabulary!" Jaskier called. "All this growling nonsense is really hard to understand. What did you mean just now, for example? Was it a _'but_ _who is valdo marx'_ growl, or a ' _please shut up'_ growl, or even a ' _yes please help me'_ growl?” 

The wolf, who had started on the path towards Vengerberg, turned back and looked at him impatiently, beckoning Jaskier to follow with a move of his big head. When Jaskier only looked at him with amusement and kept eating, he padded over to the bard again, then went behind him, and with his head started _pushing_ Jaskier to get him to stand up. It was difficult to resist the wolf's weight, and Jaskier stumbled on the road. He kept pushing him even then, emitting little growls to get him to move forward. 

The poor minstrel held his hands up in surrender so the wolf would stop this rough treatment. If this didn’t confirm that the beast was, in fact, human, Jaskier mused as they started walking together, then nothing would. It reminded him of how his little brother used to sometimes drag Jaskier by the sleeve of his shirt, to show him his latest discovery (usually an ants' nest or a particularly pretty leaf). The wolf showed the same childish impatience, unwilling to put up with Jaskier's antics for longer than was strictly necessary. 

It was powerful to be walking alongside such an imposing beast, as though he had been the one to tame it. They certainly made quite the impression : after walking for about an hour, they had crossed paths with a merchant riding a cart pulled by a draft horse. The poor man nearly fainted when he saw _what_ sort of animal exactly was accompanying Jaskier (he suffered from short-sightedness and had originally thought this distant white spot was his vision playing tricks on him.) The man's horse, however, remained mysteriously unfazed. Jaskier didn’t know if it was because of the large blinkers obscuring its view or because the animal could sense the wolf was actually a man in disguise. 

Jaskier apologized with a bow to the poor merchant for the scare, and asked him if there was a mage in the next village over. The man, his voice quavering, said no, no mage, but he was sure there was a healer, oh, please don’t kill him. Jaskier thanked him and went on his merry way, the wolf following behind him while the merchant stared at the odd pair with wide eyes, crossed himself, and muttered under his breath that no one would ever believe him. 

They reached their destination at sunset, a village named Nowa, according to the decrepit looking welcoming board nailed to a tree at the entrance of the main road. Jaskier suddenly found himself facing a dilemma: he couldn’t very well enter the village with the wolf at his side, yet he was loathe to leave him behind. People would stare and scream and eventually call for arms, and Jaskier really didn’t want to face that. He could have pretended the wolf was tamed, but the sheer size of him would frighten anyone into fleeing or fighting. He didn’t want his newfound companion to come to any harm. 

He turned to the animal, and made a move to pet his head again. The wolf allowed it, his tail giving half a wag. “I’m sorry,” Jaskier explained. “You can’t come with me in the village - they’ll be afraid of you. We don't want that. You’ll have to wait for me here, and tomorrow we can continue the journey. I will seek that healer and see if they are of any use.” The wolf didn’t reply, but Jaskier knew he understood. Regretfully, he left him behind with a last scritch behind his fluffy ears and walked down the small hill slope leading from the edge of the forest path to the village’s main road. When he looked behind him, the wolf was gone from sight. 

The bard was tired, and hungry, and he desperately wanted a bath, but meeting the healer was the first, right thing to do. He walked into the first inn he saw (not that there was any other one) and went over to the counter. There weren't many people inside the inn, even thought it was the evening - a group of four men were playing cards in a corner, and a couple people were chatting at the bar. They glanced at Jaskier when he arrived before resuming their conversation. The barmaid was busy cleaning (or was it dirtying?) a glass with a piece of cloth. She had a toothless smile. Jaskier ordered a jug of ale, threw some coin on the counter, and asker the woman about the resident healer. 

They apparently lived in a tumbledown cottage with their family, on the outskirts of town; Jaskier thanked her, and also managed to bargain for a room for the night at a lesser price than the owner originally demanded, by promising he would sing for them when he returned. Hopefully the inn would be more packed by then, otherwise he would tire his voice for nothing. 

She gave him the keys to his room. Jaskier finished his ale, then went up the stairs. The room was small but it seemed comfortable enough; there was a little chimney in one corner, with a basket of dried wood in front of it just waiting to be burnt. Jaskier put down his lute and his bag. He tested the bed - the mattress seemed surprisingly to be made out of actual feathers and not straws. It is true that he had seen quite a lot of goose in backyards when he arrived... The pillow was sinfully soft, and he groaned and buried his face in it. He just wanted to sink down into the bed, close his eyes and take a nap, but he resisted. Opposite the bed, against the wall, was a table with a bowl of fresh water on top of it, and a clean piece of cloth folded next to the bowl. Jaskier splashed his face with water, and immediately felt better. 

That done, he headed back downstairs to find the healers’. The village was small, and he reached the little cottage (situated on the opposite end of the inn) in no time at all. The house was lovely, really : the wooden blinds and the door were painted turquoise, there were flowers blooming all over the garden (begonias and buttercups and camelias), and a fat rabbit was busy munching on the grass and hopping around. Jaskier pushed open the small gate and made his way up the stoned path to knock on the door. The whole house was very very tiny, he realized; which meant that… 

A hobbit opened the door. 

Jaskier took her in, from the brown curls atop her head to her hairy naked feet. Her cheeks were rosy, and she was wearing a violet apron covered in streaks of flour. She smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Jaskier felt immediately at ease. It was impossible not to trust and like this woman the moment you met her. She had one of those faces. “Hello,” he said politely, inclining himself and taking her hand in his to kiss it. “I was told I could find a healer here?” 

She nodded and waved him in. “I’m Agnes Dagins. Careful with your head, the ceiling is low.” Jaskier indeed had to hunch his back to walk in the tiny house. “Consultations are normally closed for the day,” she informed him, leading him to a small room that had been obviously designed to receive her patients. “So my prices are higher, but I can see that you’re not from here, and I suppose you won’t be staying long. You wouldn't have come if you didn't need to. So tell me, what ails you?” Jaskier sat in the chair she indicated, and she plopped down on the one opposite him. Her feet didn't touch the ground, while Jaskier felt awkwardly oversized, as if he'd sat in a chair meant for children. He was too aware of the length of his legs. 

Between them was a wooden desk on which were piled up various scrolls. One of the walls was lined with colorful potions vials, and on another, there was a library full of (from the titles Jaskier could decipher) medical books. Plants were hanging over their heads, and a rampant vine planted in a corner twined itself around one of the bookshelf’s legs. Behind Jaskier was also a long medical chair. Agnes had put on a pair of half-moon glasses and was looking at him expectantly. 

“I had an encounter with a wolf on the road,” Jaskier began. The hobbit straightened up, nodding. 

“Were you attacked? Bitten? Scratched?” 

“No, nothing like that, although I did think I would be. But on the contrary - the wolf was… very friendly. He’s been following me ever since I met him, and I came to the realization that this was no wolf at all. Lady Dagins, I think my traveling companion is a _man_ stuck in the body of a wolf. And I’ve come to seek your help and opinion on his condition. We're looking for a cure.” 

She sucked in a breath. She obviously hadn't expected that. “Lead me to him,” she demanded. 

\---

Agnes had gathered up a few things in a round straw basket, which she carried under one arm as she followed Jaskier to the edge of the forest, where he had left the wolf behind. 

Jaskier kept up idle chatter in an attempt to ignore how nervous he felt. He told her as much as he could about the wolf when she asked questions, and then he talked about himself and his profession as a bard. Agnes’ eyes twinkled with joy the whole way; she seemed quite excited at the idea of meeting a cursed man stuck in a wolf’s body. Jaskier supposed this must have been her most interesting case in a while : in a small town such as this, she probably handled nothing more serious on a daily basis than the common cold, midwifery, or scratches on clumsy children. 

They walked the short trek up the hill slope; from there, they could see the whole village. Jaskier ventured deeper into the forest with her, straying off the path. He put his hand around his mouth and called for the wolf. 

“I should warn you,” he said, when he finally heard a distant bark in response. “He is very big.” 

The wolf chose that instant to leap from behind the trees on their left, giving poor Agnes quite the fright. She jumped and held a hand to her heart, staring with wide eyes and an open mouth as the wolf slowed down and started pacing in front of them. “Oh, oh good heavens,” she said faintly, attracting the attention of the wolf, who stopped his pacing, sniffed the air, and growled at her, its ears pinned back. Jaskier tutted at him. “That is… one massive beast.” 

“He's in a mood," Jaskier remarked. "Was the hunt unsuccessful? Be kind, Wolf - this is, as promised, Agnes Dagins, this village's healer. We’re one step closer to curing you.” The wolf stopped growling at that, and whined instead, questioningly. “Can you let her closer?” 

Jaskier went back to the small hobbit, and gently took her by the hand. She was trembling from head to toe, holding her basket close to her chest as if it would protect her. She looked very small next to the wolf. The animal seemed to realize that, because he whimpered and then lied down, lowering his head on his front paws. 

“Don’t worry,” the bard said. “He may look bad but he’s a biiig softie at heart. He likes pats and went hunting for me the other day. There is nothing to fear.” 

The wolf did his best to appear non threatening. He allowed her to raise a shaking hand to stroke his head, her hand swallowed up by the white fur. She smiled with wonder. “This is incredible…” Then she seemed to remember she had a job to do and a reason why they were here. She put the basket down at her feet, raised both her hands above the wolf’s head, closed her eyes and focused. She was moving her hands slowly, and the wolf watched her with his ears pricked. Jaskier watched her too, uncertain. The healer was murmuring words in the Elder language; Jaskier understood bribes of it - something something _revelation_ something. Finally, she stopped and looked at the wolf with a soft, sad smile. Jaskier, who had been leaning against a tree in the meantime, ambled over to them. “Well?” 

“He has indeed been cursed,” Agnes said. “What I can tell you, bard, is that the curse is recent and can easily be lifted. The bad news is, I can’t do anything for this poor man myself - the magic used is powerful and ancient, and I only know the basics. You will have to find a mage trained at Ban Ard or Aretuza, or… perhaps head to Aretuza itself. They should be able to lift the curse. If you find the person who did this to him, why it's even better, but if they cursed him I doubt they’d be willing to undo it that easily.” 

“Right,” Jaskier said slowly, “Right, right, right… And how do I go exactly about finding a powerful mage?” 

“As you know there is one for every kingdom,” Agnes replied. “They sit by the king's throne and advise them. You’ll have to ask for an audience, and hope that they are willing to receive you...” 

“...Fuck,” Jaskier sighed. This situation was reaching bigger proportions than he ever anticipated, and it was completely throwing his own plans off track. But then again, it was lucky that the wolf had found _him_. Jaskier the Bard was no stranger to the royal court, he had sung a few times at royal events, and surely word of his well-liked performances had spread. Perhaps reaching out to the king or queen in the next kingdom wouldn't be so hard. Besides, he had made made a promise. He would go to the end of this quest, save the wolf, and then write an _epic_ ballad. “Is there anything else you can tell us?” 

“You should know his real name,” Agnes said severely. “You call him _wolf_. There is a man under all that fur, bard, a man with his dignity _._ He was robbed of it. You don't need to rub salt into the wound. _”_ The wolf barked as if in agreement, and Jaskier felt properly shamed. Agnes bent over to rummage in the basket, and took out a... deck of cards? 

“These are name cards. Future parents sometimes come to me when they can't reach an agreement on the future name of their baby, and Destiny decides what they should be called and what qualities and faults come with that name. But in your case, I will use the deck's blank card and a simple spell, which shall reveal this man’s full name to us.” She took one of the cards, and Jaskier resisted the urge to laugh as she very seriously placed it on top of the wolf’s muzzle. 

The wolf went crossed eyed looking at it, and seemed to fight the urge to sneeze. “Stay still…” Agnes said “This will be but a minute.” She then closed her hand around the amethyst amulet she wore at her neck, and started chanting. Jaskier felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on hand. He shivered. The wolf whimpered as a gust of wind agitated the trees. The card was glowing. Then as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Agnes stopped chanting, and with a satisfied smile, she took the card back and held it out for Jaskier to read. The wolf was shaking his head, rattled by the whole experience. 

_“Geralt of Rivia,”_ Jaskier read. It was like something had fallen into place. The wolf barked and immediately looked at him in response. His tail was wagging. “Hmm. Well, quite frankly, I prefered Olaf. Geralt sounds all growly like you."

As if to prove his point, Geralt the Wolf stopped wagging his tail and bared his teeth at Jaskier. "I'm kidding," Jaskier said with a grin. "I'm very happy I finally know your name, Geralt. I can't wait to see what you actually look like." He raised his hand to pet him. Geralt huffed and stepped away. 

“Geralt of Rivia…” Agnes murmured thoughtfully. “The name rings a bell - but where have I heard it…? Ah, no matter.” She shook her head. “It will come back to me in time. Old age, you know how it is. Apart from that, Sir Geralt, you are fine. No wounds, no sickness, and the curse has no other effects than this - you being stuck as a wolf. It won’t progress nor do anything else. You won't turn feral. I get the feeling whoever did this to you was not truly angry.” 

“They turned him into an animal," Jaskier pointed out dryly. Geralt made one those sounds that sounded vaguely like a 'hmm', as if he also protested the healer's words. 

"Believe me, it could have been worse. His curse is disagreeable, petty, and mean, but it is superficial. Some curses turn men into animals inside and out. They become murderers, feral beasts, no better than dogs with rabbies, and they must be put down. Geralt here might be trapped in the body of a wolf, but… Melitele be blessed, he is still human. We are lucky. With his size, he could have done a lot of damage," she said severely. She gathered up her basket again. Jaskier said nothing. The wolf bumped his head against Jaskier's shoulder as if to reassure him. 

"Thank you so very much,” Jaskier finally said. “What do I owe you?” 

“25 ducas. I didn’t do much,” she said humbly. “I really wish I could help more. But like I said, I don't have the skills or the training...” 

“It is more than we had so far. Thank you, Agnes.” Jaskier opened the pouch strapped to his belt and took out the necessary amount of coin with a wince - he really hoped singing that night at the inn would fatten it up again. This was an expense he truly hadn't planned for. 

“What will you do now?” She asked, accepting the money. She contemplated the thin man standing next to the white wolf. Jaskier’s hand was lost in the animal’s pelt. 

“The nearest kingdom is Aedirn, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. King Demavend is the ruler. I don't know if he has a mage at his side.” 

“I suppose we’ll have to find out.” Jaskier burrowed his face in the wolf’s side, eliciting a half-hearted growl from the animal. “It’s fine. I was headed to Vengerberg anyway.” 

“I wish you good luck, bard,” Agnes said sympathetically. “And you, Geralt of Rivia. May Melitele be with you.” 

\----


	3. Dust Digger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier held his bloody dagger menacingly in front of him, ready to strike again should the hideous starfish-like creature decide to attack. “YOU STAY THE FUCK BACK! I WON’T HESITATE, BITCH!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello bonjour !!!! i've a few things to say : 
> 
> \- first thank you so SO much for all the comments, kudos and subscriptions - I read and cherish all of them;  
> \- everyone liked Agnes the hobbit healer ! XD so she may have a cameo later in the story!   
> ;  
> \- Please mind the updated tags (they meet a monster and Geralt is injured) and enjoy!  
> ;  
> \- Said monster is called a Dust Digger, taken from D&D lore. Very short passages describing it were taken from this website (https://www.d20pfsrd.com/bestiary/monster-listings/aberrations/dust-digger/) and you can find illustrations very easily on google image.;  
> \- Speaking of which - if you want to get an idea of Geralt's size, Google "princess mononoke wolf" because that's exactly what I have in mind;  
> \- apologies for any mistakes, english isn't my first language;  
> \- thank you very much for following this story, and i hope you like this lenghty chapter! <3

“ _This was how Jaskier the bard found himself going on an epic quest…"_

Jaskier paused dramatically for effect. 

" _Together with his new companion, Geralt of Rivia, they traveled for miles into faraway lands, going where no man had gone before, taking unexplored paths all across the Continent; but their journey was not an easy one of course. They braved every danger - bandits and monsters and_ \- oh," he said in surprise. "Did I leave a blank here? No matter _,_ this is a work in progress. _They braved every danger and came out victorious. Their final destination was the legendary sanctuary of Aretuza... A mythical, magical academy built on the dark island of Thanned, lost in the middle of the Western Sea, and said to be unapproachable by mere humans… But Jaskier felt brave enough to face the elite Brotherhood of magicians. He had to try - for Geralt's sake.”_

The wolf snorted when Jaskier ended his reading. The bard looked up from his notebook. “What, you don’t like it? Come now, Geralt, this is a good premise. I'll admit it may be a tiny weeny bit exaggerated and grandiloquent at times, but my goal is to write an epic tale that will be remembered for years - if not centuries - to come. I want my name to go down in history. I want mothers to read my writing to children at night, the story of the Wolf and the Bard, as they hang onto every word, wide-eyed and awestruck, clutching at their soft pillows and then, when they are asleep - dreaming of being as good, as selfless, as cool as _Jaskier."_

Geralt snorted again and looked away, disinterested. Jaskier peered at him. "What would you write, hmm? _We_ _walked for hours and nothing happened?_ No no, Geralt! No! People need to dream. No one would want to read a story like that _,_ much less publish it. Luckily for us,” he said, clasping his notebook shut with an air of finality to emphasize his point, “I happen to have been gifted with a flourishing imagination and a clever way with words. My song and this book will both be a success, I just know it. All because I met you!” 

The wolf didn't reply. He was pretending to be asleep and had clearly tuned Jaskier out. His tail flicked through the air regularly, trying to chase the cloud of midges that hovered near them. 

The air was stuffy and hot. They’d run out of water early on; now it was the middle of the day, where the sun shone the brightest. Jaskier's clothes were sticking to his skin, his hair was plastered to his forehead, his face was caked in a thin layer of dirt from the road, and his throat was parched - remaining dry no matter how many times he swallowed his own saliva. The bard, at some point, had even run out of energy to complain loudly about the scorching heat. It was unnatural. How could it be so hot when spring just barely begun! 

The wolf, although he was panting heavily, surprisingly seemed to fare better than Jaskier despite his heavy fur, which was incomprehensible. Jaskier was _this_ close to taking all his clothes off and continuing to walk the road naked, if only it would help him get colder. He would do so it if he wasn’t afraid of getting a bad sunburn. His skin was fair and delicate: he didn’t fancy spending the next couple days in pain, peeling off the top layers of it, thank you. 

They needed to find water, and soon. For now they had sought cover in the shade of a lone tree planted next to the road, the only sign of life for miles. They had nothing to do but wait for the hottest hours to pass. Time trickled by slowly. Geralt dozed off. Jaskier wrote. He had originally planned to pause only for a few minutes, but now he didn’t want to leave this blessedly cool spot, and Geralt didn't seem eager to either. The wolf was lying down on the ground, his head resting on his big paws, eyes closed, his ears twitching from time to time. Jaskier felt like imitating him and taking a nap. 

He had planned out this whole thing rather poorly, he could admit. The bard sighed. He thought of the halfling they had met at the last crossroads, who assured them than the next hamlet was just a day’s walk away. Bollocks! That was _four_ days ago, and they had yet to even spot the smallest house in the distance. Clearly the man’s sense of direction was failing him, or he had lied to them, but to what end? Jaskier shook his head. He’d apologized to Geralt already a couple times, for their situation was truly dire - they were completely lost, without food or drink. All Jaskier had left was a wrinkled, bruised apple. As for Geralt, the man-wolf hadn’t eaten in two days. The landscape all around them was arid, yellowish, and completely deserted : there was nothing he could hunt for, contrary to the forest. No animals, and the only plants were weeds that somehow managed to grow through cracks in the earth’s crust. Clouds of dust rose up like smoke into the air whenever they took a step. 

Jaskier sighed again - he was sorry for his travel companion, and felt weirdly responsible for him, even if Geralt wasn’t in any way shape or form a pet. But he was a man who was unable to communicate and so he needed Jaskier's help. He started listing in his head all the things he would buy at the next town over to prevent such a situation from happening again : at least two other waterskins, for a start, as well as much more food, new clothes (his smelt absolutely disgusting)... And most importantly - a horse. He absolutely needed to buy a horse. Horses weren't cheap, but if they were to go all the way to Aretuza he most definitely needed a mount. He also needed better shoes… The ones he wore were good quality and very fashionable, but they definitely weren't made for walking such long distances. He had become numb to the pain of blisters but he was pretty sure his feet must be bleeding. He tried not to think about it. 

Jaskier looked at Geralt sideways - the wolf was certainly big enough to carry someone on his back, even a full grown man, but he had a feeling Geralt wouldn’t be amenable to that brilliant idea. He had learned Geralt was broody and quiet on the best of days. He bore Jaskier’s ramblings and his affection in stoic silence, always seeming to catch himself whenever his tail wagged (when Jaskier pet him or made a particularly bad joke, for example) as if he couldn't allow himself to feel joy even for a short minute. So. No wolfback riding for him. Jaskier entertained and just as quickly mourned that idea for a good five minutes. 

He quit leaning against the tree trunk. He started pacing in a circle instead, then kicked a pebble just to do something. It went rolling away into the dirt. He kicked another one - was there really nothing to do besides kick pebbles like he was five? Had he really reached that point? Jaskier picked up a small stone and threw it away with all his strength, which wasn’t far. He was _bored,_ it was too hot, he was thirsty and all around miserable, also Geralt wasn’t the most entertaining travel companion… just what had he gotten himself into? He looked down at the ground, prepared to pick another stone and continue this childish game, but a low growl from the wolf made him stop. 

He looked at Geralt. “What?” He said. But Geralt wasn’t looking at him. The wolf got up and sniffed at the ground. His ears were pricked up, his posture alert. He was staring down at the earth with an intensity that made Jaskier feel queasy. “What is it, big boy?” 

Geralt ignored him. Jaskier unsurely started imitating him (maybe Geralt was just playing?); he looked at the ground too, unsure what they were waiting for - and that’s when he saw. Next to Geralt’s paw, the ground was trembling. : pebbles moved and knocked together as if something was moving _below_ the ground - writhing, gliding up to reach the surface. Geralt growled again, much more threateningly. His ears went flat against his head. Whatever it was, with his acute hearing, he could no doubt hear its progress and knew exactly where it would surge up. 

He jumped in front of Jaskier protectively, facing the deserted land in front of them. His teeth were bared, his tail held horizontally and his forelegs bent at the knee in a telltale threatening position. He started stalking forward as he growled. Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat - he didn't want to witness a fight between Geralt and whatever monster was out there! Whatever that creature _was_ that made the earth tremble beneath their feet _,_ they’d probably just encroached on its territory and it only wanted to frighten them away. 

(Or eat them. Most likely eat them.)

Either way they needed to go, now, in the opposite direction, no questions asked. They would just apologize and leave quietly. _Not_ try to fight it, what the hell was Geralt doing?! “Geralt!" He hissed when his companion kept walking away. "Geralt don’t _leave_ me!” The wolf was no longer hiding in the protective shade of the tree. Jaskier cursed and trotted after him, but Geralt turned around and barked at him, a warning against coming any closer. 

In front of the wolf, large chunks of the sandy ground were collapsing, revealing a gaping, deep, wide hole, roughly three meters large. Jaskier froze on the spot as five long and thin tentacle-like arms covered with hundreds of barbed, tubular cilia erupted from the hole and started thrashing around wildly in search of prey. One hit the ground very close to them with enough strength that he nearly fell. He gripped the wolf by the back of his neck - the next attack might skewer them both and he _quite_ fancied staying alive, thank you - and pulled to urge him to flee. The creature seemed blind, if its behavior was any indication, which gave them a shot at running away before it could detect them more precisely. With a start, Jaskier realized the only reason it was now there was because he'd made a ruckus with those pebbles, and the monster must have felt the vibrations. 

He had no desire to get a closer look at what exactly rested in the center of that hole, had no desire to get intimately acquainted with what these deadly arms were attached to. The wolf was still growling, poised to attack. Jaskier looked at Geralt like he was insane. Despite his imposing size, he clearly stood no chance against that monster - just one hit of those barbed arms and he would be badly hurt and knocked out for good. If he didn't die first. “Geralt, we must goooo! Let's leave our new, very deadly, pissed off friend there!” As he spoke, the arms seemed to converge on him as one. They stroke at the speed of light. “GERALT!” Jaskier screamed. 

Something hit his stomach and stole all the breath from his lungs. He went flying. 

This was it. He was dead. This was the end. 

He hit the ground - hard- and rolled in the dirt until he was meters away. Jaskier groaned, spit out some sand and tried to blink dark spots away from his vision. 

"Fuck," he cursed, feeling dizzy. His arm was curled over his stomach. He felt like he had been punched hard, but - he looked down and saw he wasn't bleeding. He had just been violently hit by one of those tentacular arms and thrown away like a ragdoll. Jaskier rolled onto his side and leaned on his elbow, squinting to see where Geralt was. He heard a loud, pained noise - a cry for help. "Fuck - Geralt!" He scrambled to stand up. "Hold on!" He hurried over to Geralt's side, his feet slipping and kicking up dust. 

The creature's arms had stopped whipping around wildly, but what Jaskier saw was worse. Geralt was lying belly down on the ground, and the monster slowly dragged him back into his lair, buried in the sand. The wolf was snapping his teeth, barking, growling, then whining in fear as he writhed and twisted his body in a desperate attempt to escape. It was no use. The creature had caught him by his back leg, hooking one of its spine deep inside the meat of Geralt's thigh. A trail of blood stained the ground. “Fuck, _Geralt!_ What do I do?!" 

Bloody stupid wolf trying to fight fucking monsters! Jaskier looked around wildly - what could he do to save Geralt?! All he had was a small dagger strapped to his ankle, a pitiful weapon when faced with an enemy this size. But he could still try to cut the beast’s arm off with that. It was his best bet for now, and if it didn't work… well - he'd try something else. Jaskier quickly rolled up the hem of his pants and unsheathed the weapon from its leather case. He always made sure to keep it sharpened; if used correctly, the dagger could be deadly against another man. The roads of the Continent that he roamed weren't safe. He had learned that a long time ago. The wolf barked when he saw Jaskier sprint towards them, as if to say, _run, you fool!_

Like hell he would! Jaskier grinned ferally, high on adrenaline. He knelt next to Geralt. Luck seemed to be on their side : indeed the creature moved, but slowly, pulling Geralt meter by meter back in its den, as if in time with its breathing. “Apologies, this is going to hurt,” Jaskier warned, smiling through gritted teeth. He grabbed Geralt’s hurt leg with his right hand and pinned it down, leaning his weight on it. The wolf yelped in pain and whimpered. With the other hand, Jaskier held the dagger up. Then, with all his strength, he brought his arm down, severing the thick, sandy-colored arm in between two spines almost halfway down. When that wasn’t enough to free Geralt, he started to saw off the rest of it. Sticky blood of a greenish color poured from the wound. Jaskier felt ill, but he kept going. A shadow fell upon him - the four other arms had shot up from the ground again at the attack. They were blocking out the sunlight as the angry creature prepared to retaliate. Jaskier knew he wouldn't survive a new assault. He worked with renewed urgency, his muscles aching. “Come on, damn you,” he growled, his heart racing in his chest. “Get - off - him! AH!” The dagger finally met the ground. Geralt immediately brought his wounded leg close to his body. Jaskier risked a look inside the hole - there, at the fleshy center of the creature’s body, gaped a circular maw lined with large sharp teeth. It was a bottomless dark pit. Jaskier shuddered and heaved. 

"We have to go," he repeated, trembling, feeling strangely like he was an outsider to the very scene he was currently living. Geralt had risen up and was limping away as fast as he could, having apparently understood his lesson. Jaskier followed him walking backwards, his bloody dagger held menacingly in front of him, ready to strike again should the hideous starfish-like creature decide to attack. “YOU STAY THE FUCK BACK! I WON’T HESITATE, BITCH!” 

And much to his amazement, the threat seemed to work : the creature’s tentacles, which were looming over them, poised to strike, stopped all advance once Jaskier had reached a certain distance. Three started retreating and disappeared back into the pit from whence they came; one of them did slam into the ground right where Jaskier had just stood as a last warning before vanishing too. Perhaps Jaskier was right and it had just wanted to scare them away. The creature would lie in wait, licking its wound while waiting patiently for the next unsuspecting human or animal to cross that arid place. 

Jaskier vowed here and there that he would never come back to this part of the Continent - who knew what else hid below their feet. Shock was setting in. He was shaking like a leaf. He forced himself to focus on his breathing and only turned around when he was sure no other nightmarish creature would suddenly reappear. 

The wolf had retreated back to the protective shadow of the tree. With his jaw, he was trying to take the gruesome piece of flesh still hooked to his leg out of his body - to no avail. “Let me,” Jaskier said gently as he knelt next to him. Geralt looked up at him. Jaskier thought he could see a newfound respect in that gaze, but perhaps that was just just wishful thinking. He peered at the wound, trying to decide what the best course of action was to avoid doing more damage. “We should never have stopped here," he muttered. "Now you're injured. I'm sorry. But I don't understand why you just ran in front of danger like that, Geralt. Do you have a death wish? Or were you just trying to protect me?” 

The wolf looked away. He whimpered softly and tried to lick Jaskier's hand. “Stay still." Jaskier slowly unhooked the spine out of Geralt’s leg, and threw the offending appendage away. He winced at the sight of raw flesh - the wound was big, forming a hole roughly the size of an orange. As he watched it slowly started filling with blood, little red dots turning into a thick river that flowed down Geralt’s paw, wetting his fur. Jaskier swore again - he carried nothing to deal with such an injury in his bag. They didn’t even have fresh water to clean it! 

“Try to lick it clean,” he told Geralt helplessly. “It's a bit gross, but channel your inner wolf or something - I think I read somewhere that saliva has healing properties… And I may have a clean shirt in my bag to bandage it until we find something better…”

Geralt did as he was told quietly. Jaskier pet his head, resisting the urge to bury his face in the wolf's fur and cry for a solid minute. A lot had happened in a very short amount of time... He was mad at Geralt and wished the man could explain - why would he try to face that monster when the battle was so clearly unbalanced ? If they had stayed where they were, by the tree, the monster’s arms would never have reached them. But no. Geralt had to go and be brave... 

He was mad at himself for kicking those pebbles… 

There was no clean shirt in his bag. The one he wore was soaked with sweat and very dirty... Well, just moments before he had wanted to undress, hadn't he? Jaskier took his shirt off, and then managed to tear off a large strip from it. He put it back on. The shirt now showed his midriff - very sexy of him. Perhaps he would start a new fashion trend. 

He crouched next to Geralt and looped the cloth around his leg tightly, tying it off with a knot. The man-wolf had managed to do an okay job at licking his wound clean, but it hadn't stopped bleeding. Red immediately started soaking in the fabric. Jaskier hated that, but this was the best they could do for now. He really hoped Geralt was a fast healer. 

“We’re leaving,” he said firmly. Geralt barked softly. The wolf looked exhausted, and Jaskier understood him plainly. Suddenly this whole quest thing didn't seem so funny anymore. “Can you walk?” Geralt nodded. He stood up, and although he was limping heavily, he did seem to be able to walk. “Okay, great." Relief was evident in Jaskier's voice. "Now - which direction should we take? Do we go back where we came from or do we keep going in that direction towards the unknown like we planned… ? We need to find a healer. _Again._ This is becoming a pattern with you, isn't it, Geralt? We must at least find water. You wouldn’t happen to be able to hunt down a stream, would you?” 

Jaskier started gathering his things up, putting his notebook back into his bag and his lute into its leather case. He truly had no idea what to do here. He briefly thought about Agnes Dagins, who’d been very kind and competent, but it was a good week since they left her behind, and she was far away now. As for the last hamlet they came from, it barely deserved that name : the hamlet was actually a very small community composed of old people who all worked on the same farm. There were three houses in total in that village. No bakery, no tavern, much less a healer, and it was the closest one for miles. One of the men owned a cart, but Jaskier really doubted he’d lend it to him in order to carry a wounded, huge wolf for an unknown amount of time while they looked for a healer. They already showed hostility when all Jaskier had asked for was to drink from their well and refill his waterskin. Some people... 

Into the unknown it was for the both of them then. “Do you believe in destiny?” Jaskier asked Geralt. The wolf huff-barked. “Because I hope Destiny sees what a predicament we are in and sends something or someone to help us out.” As he spoke, a light fresh breeze started blowing, which helped cool the air. It felt good on his face. "See? Just like that! Thanks, destiny." 

Geralt wooed softly and kept limping close to Jaskier's side. Jaskier glanced at the wolf and sighed. He placed his hand on Geralt’s shoulder, scritching the soft fur absently. “It's going to be fine... We’ll find a village eventually. It’s just facts : all roads must lead somewhere _etcaetera_. I just hope we won’t be making anymore… unpleasant encounters…But if we do,” he said seriously, looking at Geralt. “I hope you know now that I’ll be there to protect you. I may be a simple bard, but…Geralt?"

The wolf had stopped walking abruptly at his words. He barked at Jaskier, who stopped as well. Geralt's head was tilted to the right, and there was a lost, interrogative look in his eyes. He whined, a low, curious sound. He barked again. He had never been so chatty - too bad Jaskier couldn't understand him. “Sorry, I don’t speak wolf." Geralt barked again, more insistently. “What? What did I say… The village? … That I would protect you?" Another loud bark. "Well it's true! You need protection, apparently! I may be a simple bard but I think I can hold my own… even if I had no idea what I was doing in that fight, it worked, didn't it? Besides you're injured now, and it's my job to protect you and care for you. Maybe you'd rather handle things on your own, but you came to me for help first. So you can drop the scary, broody, I'm-a-murder-machine act around me, Geralt. You're not the big bad wolf everyone sees at first glance. And!" He wagged his finger in Geralt's face. "No more suicide missions like that," he scowled. "That was foolish _and_ very honorable _and_ also very reckless. You could have died, Geralt! I'd be very sad if you died. So don't. I like your companionship. Plus you need to be alive for me to write my epic tale about all this, remember?” 

Geralt just stared at him. He seemed to have no idea what to make of Jaskier. He finally settled on limping over to him and, in a rare display of affection, headbutted Jaskier’s shoulder in response. When he made no move to draw back after a minute, Jaskier tentatively wrapped his arms around the wolf’s neck - well as far as he could reach - and simply hugged him. He had a musky, strong smell. Jaskier closed his eyes and felt himself relax, all the tension he had accumulated in the last few days melting away. 

"Damn it," he whispered, tearing up. Gods he was tired. 

It felt good to be here. 

Safe. 

Jaskier sighed. They needed to find a way to lift that damned curse, the sooner the better. He couldn't wait to meet Geralt as a man, to see who he truly was, and to have a proper discussion with him. "Come on," he said. "We have a long way to go." 

\-----

They kept going. The landscape around them was slowly but surely changing, which brightened up Jaskier's mood considerably. There was more greenery and it was livelier all around : they could hear crickets as well as the ever-present buzzing of insects, and they had seen a couple lizards lounging in the sun (who scuttled away when Jaskier came near). They seemed to be headed in the right direction at last. 

When Jaskier last checked, Geralt’s leg had finally stopped bleeding, which was a huge relief. However, his limp had worsened. The wolf bore it with pride, keeping his head held up high, but when he thought Jaskier wasn’t looking he would slow down and grit his teeth, tail hanging low. It was clear that he was weakened. Jaskier hated seeing him that way, it just didn't feel right. He encouraged Geralt to keep going with words, because stopping was the worst thing they could do. He ignored his own aches, his own parched throat and rumbling stomach. He lied and told Geralt they weren’t far from civilization, that he recognized the place, that they just needed to hang on a little while longer and then he could get that leg properly looked at and they could rest.

He kept babbling, keeping up a steady flow of words just so the wolf could follow the sound of his voice even if the pain or exhaustion made him close his eyes. He half-dozed half-walked, following Jaskier and trusting him completely. The bard composed new songs out loud and asked for Geralt’s input, choosing to interpret his whines and small whimpers as actual insight into his ballad. "Yes, you're right, I think _gorgeous like a sunrise_ is too cliché too… how about gorgeous as an orchid? Doesn't rhyme at all with the rest, but…" 

He also talked about his childhood, about all the mischief he and his little brother got up to. One time, he said, on a very snowy, freezing day, they had poured buckets of water in front of the shed where his Father kept the family carriage. He had a very important meeting that day, and in his haste to get inside the car he’d slipped on the newly formed black ice and fallen right on his arse while the two kids looked on, hidden behind one of the garden trees, giggling. Their father, red in the face with anger, had heard them and had given the instigator - Jaskier - a good spanking for that, but it had been worth it, if only for the brief attention the man dared give his son in that moment. Another time, he said, they’d caught a large spider and hidden it in his mother’s jewelry box. Her piercing shriek was heard on the other side of the estate. And yet another time -- 

“Holy shit,” he said, coming to a halt. Geralt, taken by surprise, bumped into him. "Geralt, hang on - do my eyes deceive me or is that a house?” He stepped aside to clear the wolf’s line of vision. 

It was a house! Thank the gods! 

“Bwoof!” Geralt said. Jaskier beamed at him and clasped his hands together happily. 

_“Bwoof_ indeed, my dear friend ! I told you to remain optimistic!” 

They kept on walking, but there was a new spring in Jaskier’s steps. The closer they got, however, the more Jaskier realized that the little tumbledown cottage made of stone he’d spotted in the distance was actually in ruins. Half of the roof was missing. The wooden door was hanging out of its hinges and it had obviously been abandoned a long time ago. Jaskier wrinkled his nose. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and right now they were very much the former. 

Geralt waited outside while he entered the house and had a look around. There wasn’t much inside besides a decrepit-looking oak bench. Some tufts of grass had grown back, springing up from cracks in the ground. There were impressive cobwebs in the corners of the walls, and the only unbroken window was nearly black with grime and dirt. But if Jaskier looked at the bright side - the roof under which he was standing was still intact. This house may not be glamorous, but… He sighed. 

But it was a place where Geralt would be able to rest, away from prying eyes. 

Jaskier swallowed, resolute, making a decision. Yes - this was providence. Geralt couldn’t keep walking like that, injured as he was. He needed to lie down lest he hurt himself some more. And it was better if he stayed somewhere humans couldn't see or find him - not when he was so vulnerable. Jaskier didn't trust them. Hidden in this cottage, Geralt would be shielded not only from the scorching sun but from men as well, while Jaskier would keep on walking, alone, until he found the next village. He would buy what was needed, both for Geralt and for him, and then come back here. Only then would he be able to take care of Geralt's wound properly. And after that… they would (when Geralt was better) continue their journey to Vengerberg - which was still far away. It was the best solution for now… Far from ideal, but Geralt seemed on the verge of collapse. Jaskier didn't fare much better, but at least he wasn't injured. Leaving Geralt here where he'd be safe was their best bet. Now whether or not Geralt would agree was another matter… 

Jaskier left the house to find Geralt was waiting for him in front of it. The wolf made one of his typical questioning ‘hmm’ noises. Jaskier smiled briefly at him, then went around the cottage, continuing his exploration. There he found a blessed sight : thank all the gods, but there was a small, natural fountain there! The house didn't have a garden to properly speak of, but it was possible to see that the ground behind it had been roughly delimited by a human hand where the grass was shorter. It formed a flat, squared space behind the cottage in ruins. At the end of that garden, the land went up again in a gentle slope, and a small cobblestoned fountain had been built there. A thin stream of water came out of a hole in the ground to end its course in the basin. The granite surface was covered in moss, the only spot of green in an otherwise dry landscape. 

There probably was a waterfall higher up the mountains, and the waterway from there had cleared itself a path in the ground to end up at Jaskier's feet. He called for Geralt to come as he scooped up water in his hands and greedily drank from it. It tasted strongly of iron, but it felt so good sliding down his parched throat. When he had drunk his fill he cleaned his face as well, splashing it with water, then his hands, before stepping aside to let Geralt drink. The stream was steady but thin for a wolf his size. Geralt lapped at it for a long long moment. The blood loss hadn't helped his case - he desperately needed to get rehydrated. Jaskier licked his lips, feeling marginally better. He was more clear headed. He stretched, yawned, passed his hand through his dirty, greasy hair and shuddered in disgust - good lord, he needed a bath like yesterday. 

As Geralt drank, he told the man-wolf of his plan : leave him behind while he went ahead to get help. Naturally, Geralt looked up sharply and growled in obvious disagreement. Jaskier dismissed his arguments with a wave (which was easy, as you can’t really argue with a wolf anyway) and said they had no choice. 

“We don't how far the next town is,” he said firmly. Geralt snarled again. He was agitated. “But it's probably not that bad - look, there’s a house there. Who says house says people. People mustn't be living far from here - even if this specific place has been abandoned. _I_ will go to the next town while _you_ wait for me here. Don't move. Rest. You need it. I’ll come back. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” he said. “Maybe two days at the most? But I promise you I’ll be back for you, Geralt.”

The more Jaskier thought about it, the more he was comforted in the idea that it really was the safest, most sensible thing to do. Geralt predictably didn’t seem to agree - he no doubt felt refreshed after having drunk water, just like Jaskier, and thought he should just keep going. Or did he think Jaskier was abandoning him? Coming up with a poor excuse of a plan to leave him behind? “I’m a man of my word, Geralt," he assured. "Have I given you any reason not to trust me so far?” 

Jaskier forced himself to seem strong, but he was worried - two days was a long time. So many things could go wrong. Geralt's wound could get infected. He could succumb to a fever. Or worse, other men - unfriendly men - could find him hidden here and hurt or kill him. 

At least he had water here, but the wolf must be starving just as much as Jaskier. The bard considered searching the area for anything to eat to tide them over, but the image of feeding the wolf a handful of berries was pitiful. Besides, he probably wouldn’t be able to distinguish which berries were good for consumption and which were poison. That wasn't his specialty. 

The wolf opened his mouth to bark again in protest, but suddenly his eyes widened. He made a strangled whine of pain as his bad leg buckled under his weight. He collapsed on the ground. Jaskier let out a string of curses that would have made a dwarf blush. 

Geralt hadn’t fainted, his leg had just - decided to give up. It was definitely a sign that Jaskier needed to go. Geralt would just lie down while he was away, and when he came back everything would be better. Right? Right. "Melitele help us," Jaskier mumbled. "When this is all done I'm going back to Oxenfurt and never leaving the comfort of my bed for a month. Regular food, ale, beautiful women - feel free to join me, by the way. You certainly deserve some nice things too after all this." 

Geralt looked up at him, his golden eyes half-lidded and glassy. _Fuck_. Jaskier hoped infection hadn’t set in, but then again the wound had been very deep, and for all he knew… For all he knew that creature’s barbs had been poisonous. Oh he really hoped that wasn't the case. Shit. 

Geralt’s bandage hadn’t been changed since Jaskier first patched him up with his dirty shirt. The man didn’t dare imagine the state of his injury now what with that lack of proper care. Swallowing, he knelt at Geralt’s side, and slowly, ever so slowly, lifted up the bloodied piece of cloth with a finger. An horrid stench assaulted his nose - dried blood, matted fur, and…

Oh good fucking lord. 

There was something moving on the very edge of Geralt’s wound, writhing beneath the skin. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

_Maggots._

Of bloody course they couldn’t have nice things, noooo, that would have been too easy! Geralt whimpered. 

“This is fine,” Jaskier said, his hand shaking. He let the cloth fall back and cover the wound again. “Absolutely fine. Just - peachy. Okay, okay - Geralt - get inside that god damn cottage _immediately.”_

Geralt tried. He rose up on wobbly legs, looking like a young fawn just learning to walk instead of a massive predator. On his three good legs, and with Jaskier's help, he hopped inside the ruined cottage. 

Maggots. Jesus. Those were a pain in the ass. Jaskier knew how to kill them or even just take them out of the animal’s body with a pair of tweezers (the kitten he owned has a kid had been infected with them too) but that represented more stuff that he needed to buy urgently. His purse was nearly empty… He didn’t even have enough for a room. He would have to give a hell of a performance at the first tavern he saw and hope that his audience was very receptive and generous - or, if that didn’t work… he would have to resort to less pleasant things. He could always sleep with someone in exchange for money. Or he could steal. He really didn't want to fall so low, but Geralt… Geralt was in bad shape. 

The wolf curled up and lied down in a shadowed corner of the room. He rumbled his thanks as Jaskier pet him absently, trying to comfort him. They made quite the picture, the two of them- Jaskier with the rags on his back and Geralt with his injury, who in this moment looked very much like a kicked puppy. 

“I’ll be back,” Jaskier said regretfully after a moment's silence. He got up, walked over to the cottage’s entrance and looked back at the wolf. Geralt was staring at him. He barked, and inclined his head in understanding. Jaskier shivered - it still unsettled him profoundly that Geralt was in fact a man trapped inside a wolf. Gods but he had to save that poor man’s leg. It wasn’t _that_ bad yet so as to need amputation, of course not, but if they did nothing it would be. The both of them now depended on Jaskier for survival... He needed to gather the last of his strength and get going. He truly hoped that the next town wasn't far. 

He felt terrible leaving Geralt behind, and vowed to be quick and efficient in his dealings when he reached it. He was also very anxious - he imagined that they were not the first men to pass in front of that cottage, and they wouldn’t be the last either. What he feared the most was that people would pass in front of the house in ruins and curiously look inside like Jaskier did. They would find Geralt, and then shoot him or run him through with a sword just because they could. A beast like Geralt made a formidable hunting trophy. Any man who brought _that_ back home had his reputation made. Jaskier quickened his pace. He wouldn’t let that happen. Geralt would be _fine_. Injury or not, he could snap a man in half with those teeth! Jaskier needn’t worry. He consoled himself by remembering that they hadn’t met anyone in all their miles of travel in that side of the country yet.

Except… he did. He did worry. Terribly so. Probably more than he should have. 

That was Jaskier for you - always getting terribly attached to the first stranger who showed him a modicum of kindness. 

Geralt of Rivia was no exception, it seemed, even if he was currently cursed to look like a wolf. When had he come to care so much for his companion ? He had no idea. But there he was. There they were. 

Jaskier started trotting in his haste to find the next village. There was no time to waste! 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be from Geralt's POV !


	4. The Witcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An insight into Geralt's thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shooort chapter but i like it and i wanted to update - this month of march is extremely stressful AND busy im running on sheer stubbornness at this point!!!! 
> 
> THANK YOU for all the nice comments it makes me so happy ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> enjoy<3

Geralt shifted slightly, grunting at the pain in his back leg. He kept it stretched behind him in an unnatural position as he was unable to fold it beneath his body. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on other sounds around him to ignore the wound. What could he hear…? There - the pitter patter of Jaskier’s footsteps gradually growing more distant as the man hurried away to the closest village. Geralt’s ears twitched. There was the soft streaming of water coming from the fountain behind the house; and then a crow, cawing in the trees outside. He attuned his hearing more : in a corner of the room, a spider spun its web, spraying strands of silk from its mouth. He could hear the musical sound of it if he focused well enough. His leg throbbed. Geralt huffed and turned his head away, resting it on his front paws. 

There was nothing to do but sleep or meditate. His tail flicked through the air. He wondered how long Jaskier would be gone. The man had promised it would be two days at the most, but Geralt knew it would take longer than that. 

Thankfully he wasn’t in any actual danger of dying from his injury, given his mutated genes and heightened resistance, but he hadn’t had any way of communicating that to his self-appointed caretaker. It would take time for Jaskier to find a village. Once he had, the bard would need to rest, eat and drink to recover from their days of walking plus the added emotions of what they’d just gone through. Jaskier would no doubt need to stay even longer to socialize with people: traveling with a wolf was all well and good, but Geralt could see that contrary to him, the bard was clearly someone who needed to talk and to be among people to feel great. Perhaps he would not even want to leave these familiar comforts again. Life with Geralt on the road wasn’t an attractive one : it was dangerous, and unrewarding, difficult even for a hardened man like him. Even if Jaskier was fiercely stubborn, loyal to a fault and had fire in his soul, Geralt would hate to see his spirit smothered because he had decided to saddle himself with a cursed, crippled wolf all in the name of romance and adventure. 

But that was Geralt speaking. Jaskier didn't seem bothered. Oh he complained and whined and ranted all the time, but he didn't leave. 

Peculiar man. 

Additionally, Geralt had well understood that they were broke. Jaskier would need to sing, to perform if he wanted to buy everything they needed. Perhaps he would also, while he had the chance, seek the comfort of a brothel. Geralt did so often enough - when he found himself in a town that wasn’t outright discriminatory towards his kind. The point was : Geralt estimated Jaskier would be gone at least four days if not more. It was a long time. But if he managed to meditate, and if nothing and no one disturbed him, it was of course doable. 

Their unlucky encounter with the Dust Digger had been a first for him. He'd never had a contract for one; Geralt had heard about them before, of course, knew they were rare and lived in deserted areas. As a child, he had devoured every single bestiary he could get his little hands on at Kaer Morhen, back when he finally understood his mom was never coming back for him and that he was being raised to kill monsters. 

At the beginning, his ordeal hadn’t semed so terrible: after all, what child doesn’t dream of slaying monsters with his sword and saving the pretty princess? In their world, boys looked up to knights, the heroes of many stories, the only men brave enough to risk their lives selflessly championing the underdog. Geralt could already see himself wearing a shining armor of silver, mounting a chestnut handsome stallion who would be draped in red, participating in tournaments, and catching the handkerchief a faceless noblewoman would throw in the air to let him know he had her favors. Geralt’s mother had read to him a lot, and his imagination was quite active at that age. 

But then the practical training started. Then there was not an inch of Geralt’s delicate, youthful skin that wasn’t covered in bruises. The real heroes, he learned, didn’t wear gold and red - they were black and blue. They cried in pain and screamed in anger, in protest, until that was beaten out of them too. They had no choice. They had been left here by their parents to become witchers, and witchers they would be if they had what it took to survive. After the training, there had been the trials. The mutations. First to enhance his physical strength; then to make him immune to disease of any kind; then it was his endurance; his pain tolerance; his vision, allowing Geralt to see in the dark like an animal. He had broken the mirror when he first saw his new reflection. He experienced the sickening mix of horror and pride at having survived when so many other boys - boys he had liked, boys he had laughed with, boys he had bonded with, his _friends_ \- had died screaming. He remembered Vesemir, patting him on the head and saying, ‘Well done, son’ while Geralt choked on his tears. He saw his hair, white in the mirror at the tender age of fourteen. 

There were twenty boys, between the ages of 5 and 13, who entered Kaer Morhen at the same time as Geralt. Only five survived. Geralt himself, then Lambert, Eskel, Leo and Coen. With time, Geralt learned to forget about all the others. 

A spike of pain brought him back to the present. He whined softly. Fuck. That was what happened when he found himself with nothing to do; right now he couldn’t keep his thoughts quiet enough to meditate. His wounded leg throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and it kept him from slipping into a relaxed state of mind. He grunted, turned his head to the other side, facing the blank, paved wall. He let his mind wander again, idly wondering who had lived in that house. An old person, perhaps? A witch? Someone who had sought isolation, that was for sure. But the cottage was now in ruins, and any scents that would have lingered in the air after the resident’s departure were long gone. The house had been completely emptied of any furniture. There wasn’t any information Geralt could glean from his surroundings. 

He went back to thinking about the Dust Digger. Nasty, tricky little beast. Geralt had jumped in front of the creature instinctively because that was what he _did_ \- he was a witcher for fuck’s sake - but he had been distracted by Jaskier.... Had he had his swords with him (and had he been human) Geralt could have killed the aggressive creature very easily. But then Jaskier had been knocked out, and Geralt made the mistake of whirling around to bark in worry - _Jaskier! -_ and… Well, he’s not proud to say the Dust Digger got him too. He wasn’t quite used to this new wolf body just yet : he was less attuned to it, less agile, less quick. He felt the sharp, burning pain in his leg, he scrambled at the earth with his fucking useless claws as the creature slowly dragged him back to its lair to feast on his insides. Fuck his life. He couldn’t die like this, Lambert would never let him live this down. 

But then Jaskier had acted, and… well, he’d been surprisingly brave, hadn’t he? His actions were very commendable. Geralt had been in a lot of pain, but not enough not to feel just a bit impressed. He had honestly expected the bard to take to his heels and run for his life, but he… hadn’t? Instead he’d drawn his ridiculously small dagger and wielded it like Geralt would his silver sword, _and_ somehow, with all his screaming and uncoordinated arm whirling, he’d managed to make the monster hesitate long enough for Jaskier to free him. It seemed there was more to the flamboyant bard than met the eye. 

Geralt had the sudden clear thought that getting on Jaskier’s bad side would be a huuuge mistake. Indeed he had a bit of a feral edge to him, carefully hidden behind a facade of bright clothes, exaggerated flourishes and a frankly alarming amount of saucy poetry. Geralt found Jaskier insufferable, to be honest (seriously, did the man ever shut up?!) He was the antithesis of him. But… But he had come to like him, weirdly enough. Jaskier was courageous and overly confident, ridiculous and foolish, simultaneously an absolute genius and a total idiot all at once. He certainly was quite the character. The role of bard suited him to perfection. And he was selfless. There was nothing to be gained in helping Geralt with his unfortunate predicament. Sure, Jaskier kept claiming that the songs he would write about their adventures would bring him fame, but from what Geralt understood when the man babbled he clearly hadn’t needed to meet him to become known. Moreover, traveling with Geralt clearly robbed him of his hard-earned money. It made him tired and cranky. Yet he hadn’t run away, and he never once came back on his words. He would stay with Geralt until they found a cure. The witcher did not question his luck. 

Their chance encounter had been a streak of luck (Geralt would almost dare call it _destiny_ if he didn’t loathe the very concept). He had been wandering aimlessly through the thick forest for two days, cursing his shit fate when he’d smelled something... different. Something human, definitely, and something good - summer meadows and lavender and freshwater. He’d followed the sweet scent curiously, being careful to keep his steps light, and had stumbled upon a man sleeping in the forest under the stars. 

He was lying on his back, his mouth half open, emitting little regular snores. His arms were raised above his head in the same position as a baby; and a leather case containing an instrument lay discarded right beside him. It looked as if he’d fallen asleep hugging it to his chest. Geralt snorted, feeling amused. The man was quite frankly ridiculous, and that was without mentioning his clothes : he wore bright crimson breeches and a loose purple shirt, the two colors making Geralt’s eyes sting. By the moonlight, his face was eerily pale. He was incredibly vulnerable like this, sleeping out there in the open as if he lied in a king-sized bed in a castle, and not _outside_ in the woods where creatures like Geralt lurked. He was an easy prey. The thought made Geralt angry. He growled, feeling mad at the reckless man, and padded closer. The man didn’t wake as Geralt sniffed him (he really did smell good). Unthinkingly, he licked his face. The musician frowned in his sleep, and Geralt could hear his heartbeat quickening as he slowly woke up. He mumbled something, and pawed at Geralt’s head blindly. Geralt snorted again. The sudden spike of fear soured the man’s pleasant scent. Geralt growled, displeased, and stepped away. 

“Ooh god,” the man whispered, his eyes squeezed shut. “Please don’t kill me.” 

Geralt snorted. As if. He wasn’t even sure a real wolf would have attacked him - the man seemed like he was all skin and bones. When nothing happened, the bard finally dared open one eye, then the other. His breath left him in a rush when he saw Geralt. There was fear in his eyes, but also a good amount of awe, of amazement. The wolf must have been quite a sight. Geralt preened unconsciously. 

He made the bard - Jaskier, he later learned - understand that he meant him no harm. The next morning he brought back two rabbits to feed him, feeling strangely compelled to stay by the bard’s side. Jaskier, the clever man, soon pierced two and two together and understood Geralt wasn’t a normal wolf. He knew, then. He knew Jaskier could help him lift the curse, and accepted his companionship. He was also somehow positive that, if he hadn’t decided to follow Jaskier, then Jaskier would have followed him wherever he went, all the while babbling about how Geralt the White Wolf had become his new Muse. He really _never_ shut up. Geralt learned to tune him out, and appreciate his company for what it was. It felt right for now to travel with Jaskier, so he did not question it. 

Although… perhaps all of Jaskier’s warm feelings towards him would melt like snow in the sun when he learned who _Geralt of Rivia_ truly was. _The Butcher of Blaviken..._ Perhaps then Jaskier would feel nothing but horror and disgust towards him, like so many people before. Perhaps he would spit in Geralt’s face and walk away -- never to be seen again. Revolted and angry that he’d helped out a murderer. 

Geralt did not truly think this would happen. Jaskier, as he had already proven, did not seem to be the type to run away from danger; rather, he ran towards it and imposed his loud presence until danger begged him to leave. But still -- there was a twinge of uncertainty in Geralt’s chest when he thought about this. He would truly hate for Jaskier to use his finely honed skills with words to hurl poisonous insults at him. He couldn't picture him being cruel, but he had been deceived by men often enough in his long life to be wary. 

He shouldn't get attached... Getting involved with humans had always brought him pain and misery: why would Jaskier be any different? The bard didn't know him - not really. He likely had constructed in his mind an image of the-man-behind-the-wolf that was completely wrong. Meeting Geralt in person would be a disappointment - he knew he needed to protect himself, even as he realized he'd already gotten used to Jaskier's lively presence in his life. 

_Fuck_. He never learned from the past, did he? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter jaskier comes back! i love him uwu


	5. Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Geraaaalt? I’m baaack!” Jaskier singsonged happily. He slowed his horse down to a trot, pulling the reins to make the animal stop in front of the cottage. “Thank you,” Jaskier said, patting Pegasus’ neck, and the horse snorted. The bard dismounted, calling for Geralt again as he opened one of the saddlebags and retrieved a large waterskin as well as medical supplies. “Geralt?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello readers !! <3 i sincerely hope all of you are doing okay. yk what i mean -- i'm sending lots of love and hugs your way. it'll be fine. 
> 
> this is a lenghty chapter, i hope you'll like it ! <3 thank you for the lovely comments on the previous one, they make my little heart go !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! <333333

Time went by slowly. 

Two days ago, Jaskier had left him here in this pitiful looking old house, and sternly told him to stay put for his own safety. And although he looked like an angry kitten when he said it, Geralt had felt compelled to obey -- surprised by the authority in Jaskier's voice. 

He hadn’t seen anybody else since, and thus Geralt assumed the next village must have been quite a small locality to be so poorly served by merchants and visitors alike. He hoped Jaskier would still be able to get some rest there, and find what they needed. 

To kill time, he meditated a lot. After Jaskier’s incessant chattering, Geralt appreciated the peace and quiet of this place. He was all alone, it was blessedly calm, and he enjoyed it while it lasted. 

He knew he would soon become restless, as the most activity he did during a day was to go from the cottage to the little fountain in the back garden to drink. Being a Witcher meant being constantly on the move; Geralt was unused to such prolonged inactivity. He was normally always dynamic, always attentive, always ready to take on new contracts and hunt down monsters. He walked the Path with the line of his shoulders always tense, his eyes always on the lookout, his mind always alert, and his body always ready to fight whatever might be lurking in the shadows. _Inattention got a Witcher killed,_ Vesemir always said. _Constant vigilance._ Even at night he slept with one eye open. 

But now that he’d been turned into a wolf, and now that he had accidentally adopted a fiercely protective bard (or was it the opposite?), well… Geralt felt like he could relax. Which that was a mistake, obviously. A beginner's error. Geralt had to remind himself constantly not to become too soft or to let down his guard too much. The road was dangerous. What he and Jaskier had undertook was no walk in the park : there was a curse to break so that Geralt could be free. No matter how much he had come to like Jaskier’s head scritches, Geralt desperately wanted to feel like himself again. 

He decided that he would wait a week at the most. If Jaskier wasn’t back by then, he would leave the cottage and... care for himself like he always had. He could find a mage on his own and avoid trouble on the way. He had teeth and claws to defend himself. Any mage worth something would be able to sense immediately that he had been cursed. Whether they would be willing to help him (if Jaskier was not there to charm them and do the talking) was another matter entirely. Mages weren’t a tender bunch. All of them were a bit mad, in fact. Too much exposure to Chaos, too much thinking that they owned the world. He had met enough of them in his long life to know that as a fact. They would want something in return, something Geralt wasn’t sure he could provide. It was easier with Jaskier there. 

His stomach rumbled very loudly, interrupting his train of thoughts. Geralt barked at it as if that would do something for the hunger pains, and waited for Jaskier’s return. 

\---

He licked and nibbled at his wound. 

He had torn off the bloodied, completely useless strip of shirt that Jaskier had used as an improvised bandage. The injury had stopped bleeding, but it smelled infected, and the sight was gruesome. Geralt grimaced. It wasn’t healing right -- no doubt because of the maggots that had made themselves a home inside his skin. He whined. 

\---

On the third day, Geralt explored the ruins of the house. It took all of five minutes for him to sniff every corner of the cottage, inside and outside, just to have something to do. There was nothing interesting to be found except the skeleton of a mouse. He came back to his favorite spot, plopped down on the ground and dozed off. 

\----

The witcher didn’t _want_ to think about the various issues that plagued his mind... He wanted to rest. He wanted peace. Yet there he saw Jaskier _; Jaskier_ with his charming smile, his startling blue eyes and his skilled hands; he saw Vesemir, with his booming voice and his drawn, scarred face; he saw Yennefer, _gods_ , Yennefer… Her long, dark, silky soft hair, her red lips, her lilac and gooseberries perfume that haunted Geralt. He saw her sighing in pleasure beneath him, and then screaming in frustration as she hurtled a priceless vase at his face and kicked him out of her home in Vengerberg. 

Fuck. Going back there with Jaskier was bringing back a lot of memories he would rather bury deep down and forget. 

He thought about his Child Surprise too... Was it a boy? A girl? Gods, he didn’t even know that… He saw Queen Calanthe, her horrified face after Geralt claimed the Law of Surprise, saw her asking in a broken whisper - _what have you done, Witcher?_

What _had_ he done? 

He thought about Nilfgaard, about Destiny, about Kaer Morhen, and about his mother, Visenna… He had never _-_ never !- understood how she could abandon him… Did she ever love him? He was her child! Why would she give him up…? Geralt had never healed from that. What would he have become if she hadn’t given him up? Being a Witcher was all he had ever known, but if he had a choice…

It occured to Geralt, perhaps a bit too late, that maybe he was developing a fever after all. 

\--

“Geraaaalt? I’m baaack!” Jaskier singsonged happily. He slowed his horse down to a trot, pulling the reins to make the animal stop in front of the cottage. “Thank you,” Jaskier said, patting Pegasus’ neck, and the horse snorted. The bard dismounted, calling for Geralt again as he opened one of the saddlebags and retrieved a large waterskin as well as medical supplies. “Geralt?” 

He furrowed his brows at the lack of response - not a growl or even a timid bark. Had Geralt left, or…? Jaskier had made a ruckus when arriving, so his next action was maybe a bit pointless, but he still slowly reached for the dagger strapped to his upper thigh (he had moved the weapon there, thinking it was way more practical than his ankle) and unsheathed it. He held it in front of him defensively as he tiptoed into the ruined house, where he found Geralt immediately. 

The wolf was lying on his side with his eyes closed. He was perfectly still. He didn’t seem to be breathing. 

“GERALT!” Jaskier screamed in horror. He rushed to the wolf’s side, immediately dropping his weapon and medicine kit. Vials, jars and others things rolled on the floor; he screamed again when the wolf startled awake. Geralt barked loudly in response, disoriented. Jaskier fell on his arse. 

They stared at each other in shock for a moment until Geralt chirped softly, reassuringly, and Jaskier let out a deep sigh of relief. His heart was still beating like crazy - he had truly believed, for half a second, that he was too late. That Geralt was… Dead. 

Obviously that wasn't the case. It would take more than that to kill him. Jaskier stood up, dusting his clothes off with a scowl. Geralt’s ears were pricked up, and his tail wagged behind him, a steady _thump thump_ that made dust rise into the air. He was _happy_ to see Jaskier. The bard smiled at him affectionately, all the worry from the past few days melting away. Geralt was still here. He was safe. He bent down, gathering the medical supplies once more and putting them back in his bag. He picked up the dagger as well and sheathed it again, before walking over to Geralt and kneeling at his side. “You scared the hell out of me,” he commented, petting the wolf’s big head. Geralt rumbled. “Aaaw, I missed you too, big boy. Let’s take care of you now. You should have seen that village, Geralt, it was lovely, when I arrived there was a man doing a puppet show for a group of children...” 

The wolf closed his eyes, his tail wagging faster as Jaskier talked and lathered him with affection. The bard then laid the bag down on the floor and unclasped it, reaching for a large waterskin inside, as well as a medium-sized transparent bottle full of a whitish liquid. “Milk of the poppy,” he explained. “For the pain. So that you don’t bite my head off while I tend to you, because this won’t be pleasant for any of us.” Jaskier then took out a large piece of cloth, which he unfolded and placed on the ground as a makeshift workstation. He set down a few things atop it : there were rolled up bandages, a bar of soap, small pliers, a jar containing a white powder, another with what looked like a healing salve, and a sharp razor blade. Geralt sniffed at all of them with interest. 

“Alright,” Jaskier said, fussing with the arrangement of each item until he was satisfied. He risked a glance at Geralt’s wound, which he’d been avoiding so far. He shivered - it was absolutely disgusting, and he dreaded needing to get hands-deep in that. But he had to, to help Geralt. Left alone, the wound would fester and become worse. The healer told him maggots could sometimes eat tissue all the way down to the bone, a fact which had made Jaskier want to throw up. What Geralt had now was bad enough. 

“Open your mouth?” Jaskier said, petting Geralt under the chin to soothe him. The man-wolf did so after a moment’s hesitation, and Jaskier paled, instinctively feeling an urge to flee at the sight of his pointed, razor sharp teeth. Fuck, but the wolf could swallow him in three bites if he wanted to. Geralt was so calm it was easy to forget he also looked absolutely terrifying. The bard swallowed and laughed nervously. He uncorked the bottle of milk of the poppy, and hesitated as to the dosage - the healer told him ten drops of it were enough to put any dog to sleep, but Geralt was much, much larger than a normal dog. In the end he poured a good 1/4th of the bottle on Geralt’s tongue, and the wolf swallowed obediently, licking his chops and growling at the taste. “Ssssh, I know, I know,” Jaskier murmured, continuing to stroke the wolf’s fur. “But this is significantly more efficient against the pain than vodka.” 

Geralt wooed softly. His eyes were closing. Jaskier kept petting him until he was seemingly asleep, and then he rose up, steeling himself. Now came the hard part : he needed to clean Geralt’s wound thoroughly, treat it for infection, and bandage it. 

Back at the village, the healer had shown him the proper gestures to treat such an injury using his perfectly healthy dog as an example; so Jaskier knew what to do, but he was still anxious. He had been asked why he didn’t just bring the hurt dog directly to be treated, which, fair, so he’d spun a tale about how the ‘dog’ he’d rescued was traumatized and didn’t let anyone near him save for Jaskier. The man seemed to be very sympathetical and had been a great help. So far, Jaskier had mused on his way back to Geralt, they had had luck finding healers that were kind, competent and not charlatans greedy for coin; but he truly hoped this was the last one they would consult for a while. Hopefully after this they would be able to travel much faster and make more progress than they had so far, unhindered by Jaskier’s lack of planning or unexpected monster encounters. He’d had quite enough of those, thank you. 

Besides things were different now! Jaskier was gone longer than he would have liked (five days instead of two) but that time had been profitable. 

He had reached the next village at sunset, about the same time as when farmers came back from working in the fields, and children went home, the sound of their bright laughter making Jaskier smile. He had found an inn immediately, and from his discussion with the barkeep learned that this village’s specialty was basket weaving, pottery, and of course farming. Men worked the land while women created their crafts, and twice a week most people would leave to Vengerberg to sell their goods at the market. They then came back with other things: fish, cloth, jewelry, fruit, etc. This village was managed by an alderman who the barkeep described as “firm but good to us”, and as a result life prospered in the little town. There was an apothecary, the man informed him, a school for the kids, a church and a bakery. What more could they ask for? 

Jaskier asked him if many bards had stayed here. The man frowned, said they hadn’t seen one in a while, and was delighted when Jaskier started singing. For the next three days the bard worked hard, playing every noon and every night until his throat started to hurt and his fingers ached. On the fourth, with all his new, hard-earned money, he set out to find himself a horse. His new mount, whom he bought from a farmer called Thomaz, was a nine-years old dark bay coloured gelding with strong legs. He was the perfect size for Jaskier, and would serve him both as a pack horse and a road horse. He managed to bring the animal’s price down by accepting to buy from the farmer two panniers, which his wife had made by hand and who cost him more than they were worth; but between his meagre savings and the coin he had just earned, Jaskier could afford it. And he really needed a horse, so there was no hesitation to be had. 

That done, he went to the apothecary, explained his situation, received a lesson in animal care and bought what he needed to treat Geralt. He took advantage of the man’s kindness, bargaining for each and every item relentlessly until the healer nearly threw him out of his shop in annoyance. 

Didn’t matter: he had what he needed, and that was the second most important order of business dealt with. 

The third pressing matter was stocking up on food. Jaskier mourned the fact that he wouldn’t be able to buy himself new clothes this time around. 

For him and for Geralt, he bought flatbread, apples, a lot of dried meat, dried fruit (grapes and figs and apricots), sunflower and pumpkin seeds, _and_ another small waterskin. When that was done, he went back to the farmer’s house to saddle up his new horse, who was named Pegasus. The gelding was calm, whickering softly when Jaskier talked to him as he started filling the panniers with his supplies. He was broke again, but money always came and went, and Jaskier figured it’d take much less time for Geralt and him to travel now that he had a horse. Geralt was injured, yes, but Jaskier had a feeling he would recover quickly. They would reach Vengerberg in no time, and hopefully see the end of this adventure soon. He already had more than enough material to write an epic ballad by now. 

Jaskier thanked the farmer and bid him goodbye, then did the same with the innkeeper, who had been a great help. He mounted the horse and they set off at a walking pace the way Jaskier had come from, leaving the village behind. As soon as they were a short distance away, Jaskier urged Pegasus into a gallop. 

He had left Geralt alone for far too long, and he _prayed_ that nothing had happened to him. He mentally apologized to his friend, both for his absence, and for what he was going to put Geralt through when it came to treating his wound -- a task he was _not_ looking forward to. But he had to adapt to the… peculiar situation. Life wasn’t all rainbow and roses. 

Enough ramblings. It was time to get to work. 

First order of business, Jaskier needed to wash his hands. The healer had drilled that into his head. He rolled up the sleeves of his frilly shirt up to his elbows, noticing belatedly that Geralt, although he didn’t move a muscle, was watching him through slitted eyes. 

Not asleep, then, but high enough on poppy’s milk that Jaskier could treat him without too much pain. He grabbed the bar of soap and got up. He walked out of the cottage to the little fountain, washed his hands carefully, then came back to Geralt’s side. He examined the wound up close. He needed to clean it with water, then shave Geralt’s fur on its edges so he could see the injury better. Jaskier grabbed the waterskin and, with a sigh, proceeded to do just that. He poured water over the wound, gently rubbing his finger over the dried clots of blood to soften them. Tinted red water trickled down Geralt’s leg. The wolf shivered beneath his hands. Jaskier did his best to be quick but efficient; luckily sunlight shone through the broken window, helping him see what he was doing. He picked up the razor blade next, and proceeded to shave Geralt’s fur off. It was a tedious process; Jaskier couldn’t help but start commenting on it, asking Geralt why he felt the need to have so many layers of goddamned _fur._ It was spring ! Why would he have such a heavy coat?! 

Geralt, of course, didn’t answer.

He cleaned the wound once more with the rest of the water. It was looking better already. Jaskier went to the fountain and back again to refill the waterskin for later, clean the razor, and wash his hands once more. 

Next he took the jar of white powder and opened it. He applied it on the wound, like the healer had shown him, pulling tight on Geralt’s skin to make sure it got everywhere - over, under, and killed every maggot that had infested it. He needed to let it take action for at least thirty minutes. Jaskier bandaged the wound tightly, and then started tidying away what he wouldn’t need anymore, like the razor. 

He went outside to check on Pegasus. The horse was happily munching on a bush of high thistles, unbothered. Jaskier walked up to him and gripped the bridle. Pegasus neighed, unhappy to be interrupted in the middle of a tasty afternoon snack. “Come on, Pegasus.” Jaskier wanted to lead him away from the road into the large garden at the back of the house, where he could tie him to a tree. “There are a lot of thistles on the other side too, look!” he said, tugging on the bridle to make the reluctant horse move forward. He needed him to stay put near the cottage, and he needed to relieve him of his panniers. He also needed to brush him, and clean his hooves if he still had enough energy. 

As for Geralt, after being treated, he would need to eat and rest. They would spend the night here, and leave again in the morning. Jaskier tried to threaten and then cajole his horse into moving, but after five good minutes it became clear Pegasus _wouldn’t_ budge, which was just what Jaskier needed. He sighed, defeated. He was sweating under his doublet. Jaskier rested his head against the horse’s shoulder, looking absently at the road ahead. Perhaps that was why the farmer had wanted to part from Pegasus : it seemed the horse was as stubborn as a mule when he put his mind to it… 

Jaskier squinted at the horizon. Was that a rider? The cloud of dust got closer, and he distinguished the unmistakable silhouette of a man on a horse, galloping towards them. Jaskier’s eyes widened. If the rider just kept on at that pace, he would pass by the cottage without paying any attention to what was inside (namely a very large wolf) but -- since Jaskier was just standing there, the man would doubtless slow down and exchange a few words with him. Meaning that there was a risk that he would take a look inside the ruins out of curiosity, just like Jaskier had done when he and Geralt first got there, and there was no predicting how he’d react to the sight of the wolf lying inside. Jaskier needed to protect Geralt; but he couldn’t just stand with his arms crossed in front of the house either or it’d be clear that he had something to hide. 

Hopefully, this stranger would simply be a harmless merchant or something along those lines, he hoped as the silhouette came closer and closer. As predicted, the man slowed down the pace of his horse when he saw Jaskier. He felt the man’s gaze take him in from head to foot, quickly marking him down as unthreatening between Jaskier’s bright blue breeches and the lute case attached to one of Pegasus’ saddlebags. The stranger’s eyes still lingered on the dagger strapped to his thigh. 

If the man was reassured, the same couldn’t be said of Jaskier, whose mouth had gone very dry. 

The rider was dressed in shades of brown and green; he wore a simple cream-coloured shirt, dark high-waisted slacks and leather boots. His horse was a healthy stallion with a grey coat shining in the sun. It was foaming at the mouth as if it had run for miles on end. The man pulled at the reins to stop the animal right in front of Jaskier, who looked up at him. He seemed to be around forty; his hair was salt and pepper, shaved on the sides and slicked back on top. He was handsome, with his intense eyes under a heavy set of dark brows and his tightly-coiled, confident posture; but an ugly scar marred his face, splitting it in two from the top of his left ear to the middle of his jawline, as if someone had tried to behead him with a sword and missed. 

The rider looked at Jaskier with polite interest while patting his horse’s neck, and Jaskier looked with mounting dread at the weapons attached to the leather belt at the man’s hips: two short swords and a dagger. He raised his eyes up to the man’s face and gave him his most charming smile, even as he felt his heart plummet in his chest. The silver symbol pinned to the man's collar gave his profession away, and Jaskier didn’t like it one bit. 

A bow and arrow. 

Of _course_ the stranger had to be a hunter. Of course. And of course, Pegasus chose that moment to be docile. The animal finally moved forward, and in doing so nearly made Jaskier fall, breaking the strange staring contest between him and the hunter. He yelped and tugged at the bridle to make his horse stop. Pegasus nickered, and the stranger chuckled. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice husky. He seemed amused by Pegasus’ antics. The horse, encouraged, started snuffling at Jaskier’s hair, maybe believing it was a weird type of grass. Jaskier stepped a safe distance away. 

“Never been better,” he drawled, inclining his head at the stranger. “And yourself?” 

“Your horse giving you trouble?” 

“No, I am --” Pegasus started nibbling at his hair again. _“Handling it!”_ He said sternly. His horse nickered. “He’s just feeling playful, it will pass.” 

“You wouldn’t happen to know how far the next village is, do you?” The hunter asked. “I’ve been travelling for days with no luck, and I’m running low on food and water.” 

“Oh, I have water in my…Hm.” Fuck. He had water in his waterskin inside the cottage.... He couldn’t very well lead the hunter there, ah bloody ah. “Actually, there’s a little fountain right behind that house,” he said quickly. “I saw it when I arrived and I wanted to refill my waterskin but Pegasus here is being difficult.” 

“Pegasus, uh?” The stranger said as he dismounted. He wasn’t much taller than Jaskier. His dark eyes glinted as he held out a hand. “I’m Percival.” 

“Jaskier.” The bard shook the man’s hand. Percival took his horse by the bridle as well (his stallion was perfectly well-behaved) and Jaskier pulled at Pegasus’ own, surprised when the gelding actually followed him this time. He carefully led Percival and his mount _around_ the little house to the fountain, hoping Geralt wouldn’t wake up and bark for him before the hunter was gone. 

If he did, Jaskier would improvise, like always. He… could say he...had a dog. A stray mutt that kept following him everywhere, but hid from strangers. Anyway, it’s not like the hunter would linger in this place, would he? Gods, Jaskier hoped not. He had better things to do, and so did the hunter, right? Like, kill animals to make a living, for one. 

“Oh, this is great,” Percival said happily when he saw the fountain. Jaskier hummed, noncommittal, and observed the hunter as he drank then refilled his own sheepskin with water. His stallion, left alone, started grazing. Jaskier’s eyes lingered on the man’s broad shoulders and his backside. He really was quite handsome, and on any other day, under any other circumstances, Jaskier would have probably tried to get him into his bed.

“There’s a village half a day’s walk from here,” Jaskier informed Percival. “It’s where I come from. Nice people, good food, good ale.” 

“And where are you traveling to?” 

“Posada,” Jaskier lied. “And yourself?” 

“No specific destination in mind. I go from town to town.” 

Jaskier eyed the symbol on his chest. “You’re a hunter.” 

“Yep,” the man said, making the last letter pop. “But I haven’t had much luck lately - this side of the country is very deserted.” 

“It is?” Jaskier asked, pretending like he hadn’t seen it all already, including the goddamn desert monster responsible for he and Geralt’s current predicament. He quite agreed. Behind him, Pegasus had gone back to eating grass, close to Percival’s own horse. Jaskier was hoping very hard that Percival would just _go away_ now that he’d drank, but instead the man sat down on the stone edge of the fountain and sighed in relief. He plucked a straw-like blade of grass from the ground and slipped it between his lips. “Yes. It’s just dry landscape,” he said conversationally, the grass giving him a slight lisp. Jaskier knew, he _knew_ the stranger just wanted a moment to rest, for him and for his horse, but time was ticking. He wanted to check on Geralt as soon as possible. “I hope you stocked up on food. You wouldn’t mind sharing, would you?” 

Jaskier bit his lips. Truth be told, he could use a snack as well, but his mind was plagued with thoughts of Geralt, safely hidden inside the cottage. “I’ve got dried figs and sunflower seeds.” 

“My favorite!” the hunter said with a charming smile. Jaskier felt heat rise to his cheeks, and he hurried to Pegasus to take food from one of the saddlebags. He brought it back to Percival, and sat down at the man’s side, resigned to suffer his presence for however long was needed. The sooner Percival would have eaten, drank, and sat down for a bit, the quicker he would be gone. Jaskier didn’t mind keeping up idle chatter for that short amount of time, even though he wished nothing more than for Percival to leave, but there was nothing to be done. He couldn’t chase the man away. If Percival sensed his smiles and conversation were a bit forced, he didn’t comment on it at all. 

His eyes widened when he learned of Jaskier’s profession, and Jaskier couldn’t help but preen a little when the man started singing one of his ballads, _Love in Moderation_. He actually sang well; Jaskier couldn’t help but join him, the man’s deep baritone complimenting his own voice rather harmoniously. 

Still - he was nearly bouncing in place when Percival finally announced he was going to leave. The sun was lower over the horizon; the man must have stayed at least an hour. Jaskier politely accompanied him to the edge of the road, to make sure Percival didn’t have the bad idea to pass in front of the cottage, and bid him goodbye. The hunter mounted his horse and returned it, saying he’d had had a good time and that he hoped their paths crossed again. Jaskier sincerely hoped they _wouldn’t_ \- or at least, not while Geralt was still a wolf, because apart from that? Percival was interesting, nice, and handsome; he could become a good friend. 

Jaskier watched as Percival and his horse galloped away. As soon as he was gone from sight, he hurried back inside the little cottage, deciding he would deal with Pegasus later on as he’d wasted enough time already. Inside the house, Geralt was predictably awake. He stared at Jaskier entered with an unreadable expression. He’d probably heard the whole conversation Jaskier had with the hunter. Jaskier felt the tension in his shoulders loosen progressively, and he all but collapsed on his knees next to Geralt. The wolf made an inquisitive noise as Jaskier started hugging him tightly, burying his face in Geralt’s smelly fur. He didn’t realize he was trembling until Geralt whined softly. He was probably in pain, confused, and now worried at Jaskier’s odd behavior. 

“Sorry,” Jaskier said shakily. “It’s okay, it’s okay, he’s gone, we’re fine. You’re fine _. Fuck,_ that was stressful. Wanna know who that guy was? He was a _hunter,_ that’s who.” Geralt growled loudly, baring his teeth. “Yeah,” Jaskier laughed. “Gods, if he had seen you, Geralt…But that didn’t happen. It’s fine. It's fine.” Jaskier swallowed, unwilling to let himself linger on the _what ifs._ They were safe, it was all that mattered. He would never meet Percival again. 

And right now, they couldn’t waste anymore daylight. “How are you feeling? Better? Worse? No opinion?” Geralt nodded at the last option. “Well then. I hope that stuff the healer sold me will actually work and I haven’t been cheated out of my money…” He frowned, unwrapping the bandage around Geralt’s leg. "Do you think you can walk with me to the fountain? I’ll be able to see better than here, and I doubt anyone else will come.” Geralt barked once more. Jaskier helped him up, and together they walked to the garden, with Geralt limping heavily. Once there, the wolf lied down in the grass. Jaskier went back to the house to take the medical supplies he needed, before sitting down at Geralt’s side. With the fountain right behind him, it was much easier to clean Geralt’s wound free of the white powder; then, with a pair of pliers, Jaskier started the most disgusting process of all - searching the wound for dead maggots and pulling them out, one by one. 

He worked silently, his face distorted in a grimace of disgust the whole time. This was very unpleasant, and he was relieved when he was finally done. “Alright, I’ve think I’ve got them all,” he said to Geralt, who remained stoically still, even though the effects of the milk of the poppy must have faded by now. Perhaps he had a high pain tolerance? Jaskier washed the pliers in the fountain, and took the healing salve. He applied it generously all over Geralt’s wound, and the wolf groaned, his eyes closing. It no doubt felt blessedly cool on his overheated, bruised skin. Finally Jaskier wrapped the wound again with a new bandage, and they were done. He breathed out, wiping his forehead with his wrist. That was intense. Wow, he had so much respect for healers -- their job was a very difficult, arduous, fucking _ungrateful_ one. He was glad he had chosen to become a bard. 

“No more injuries, for any of us,” he said to Geralt firmly. “I am _never_ doing that again, gah.” 

The wolf made a deep rumbling noise Jaskier chose to interpret as assent. “Alright, mister,” he said to his companion. “Let’s eat - you must be famished! - and get some sleep. I shall use you as a pillow, if you don’t mind. Hopefully you’ll feel better tomorrow and we can be on our way… I’m getting sick of that little cottage, even if we were lucky to find it. Did I tell you I bought a horse? Yeah, his name’s Pegasus, you’ll meet him tomorrow. I hope he won’t be scared of you… You know, I do so wish you could talk, Geralt. Monsters always talk in fairy tales - not that you’re a monster, obviously not, but you know what I mean. Right, I’ll go get the rest of my stuff and take care of my horse.” He raised a hand to scritch the spot behind Geralt’s left ear, the one he liked. 

“Woof,” Geralt said. Jaskier smiled fondly at him. 

“You're adorable. Try to get some sleep, my friend. You need it. I’ll be right there.” 

\---- 

_Friend..._

It was good. It felt good, being taken care of, even for a short while. 

Geralt grunted and closed his eyes. 

When Jaskier came back, he found the wolf asleep. He laid his bedroll down next to the animal, and laid his head on Geralt’s side. The wolf didn’t even twitch. His breathing was deep and regular. Jaskier smiled again, and hugged his lute closer to his chest. He fell asleep curled around it, like he always did, soothed by the comfort of Geralt’s presence. 

It felt peaceful, to be here with him. More than that - it felt right. 

\----

_Two weeks later._

Percival grinned at the barmaid as she placed a jug of ale in front of him, liquid sloshing over the rim. She ignored his leering, already hurrying away to slalom between tables like a busy little bee to serve other clients. Percival shrugged and grabbed his pint, downing half of it immediately. 

He was still in Aedirn, in the ever-expanding town of Pysenlaan. He had sold the game he caught at the market that morning (half a dozen rabbits, 2 ducks and a fox) and he was now comfortably sitting at the table of the inn he was staying at. It was called _The Manor_ ; and at this time of the day, around noon, it was packed with people. He could smell piss, ale, sweat, food cooking, and hear the roaring of men’s laughter and their bellowed demands for food or drink. Percival was a loner (he hadn’t become a hunter for nothing) but sometimes, being in the midst of such agitation felt good. 

But it wasn't enough to distract him from the thoughts he’d been having lately. He sighed. 

Percival liked his job: it was an easy, rewarding one. Set up traps and wait, or aim precisely and shoot with his bow and arrow, and then collect the reward. He made good coin : the people were always happy to have something other than simple chicken eggs to eat, and he provided that. But recently, he had been thinking that his job was almost... too easy. It had become routine. There was none of the excitement from before, no thrill of the chase, not anymore; no animal he hunted was particularly challenging. He was too used to this, had learnt to analyze their behavior perfectly, and found that each member from each species behaved more or less the same. Percival longed for something new, something exciting, even if he had no idea what that could be. He wasn’t going to take on contracts for actual monsters, he wasn’t suicidal. That was a witcher’s job. But still - he wanted something else. Something different. 

He took a long sip of his drink. The most interesting encounter he’d had these past few weeks had been with the bard Jaskier. He hadn’t expected to meet him, and he hadn’t lied - he really did like and know the bard’s songs. Hell, every person on the Continent knew at least one of them, unless they lived under a rock. And Percival traveled a lot, as did the poet’s ballads. He had heard common folk sing them, had seen other bards joyfully cover them. 

He didn’t know if Jaskier was aware of his rising fame. He assumed he did, so he hadn’t brought it up. The man had seemed a bit off compared to what Percival had heard of his exuberant personality, but everyone had bad days. It had taken a bit of time for Jaskier to warm up to him, but he had lit up when Percival started humming the first notes of his ballad about love. He had then gone from reluctant to engage in conversation and disinterested to attentive and friendlier. Even though Percival had sensed the man was tense and distant from the beginning, he had chosen to insist and ignore those signals to leave him well enough alone simply because seeing someone else and talking to them had felt nice. He had needed it at the time. 

Jaskier was a good conversationalist. He briefly wondered what the bard was going to be doing in Posada - there was nothing there, it was the edge of the world. Sure, he supposed the vast fields of flowers and verdant hills made for good inspiration, but apart from that? Ah, well, it was none of his business. The bard, when he thought about it, had seemed clearly preoccupied with something else, and Percival politely hadn’t pushed. Family matters? Love matters? 

The more he drank, the more the pleasant, warm buzz of alcohol set in. He had ordered something to eat as well, but it took time to come because of the number of clients, so he started people-watching. Most of them were passing through the town just like he did, visitors that traveled from an area of the Continent to the next for one reason or another. There must be a few regulars as well, the ones whose table the barmaid lingered longer at, the ones where she smiled and laughed and joked. 

She was lovely, but not really Percival’s type. He prefered brunettes. He drank some more. Two men sat down at the table next to his. He paid them no mind, continuing his silent observation, noticing that the more the barmaid smiled, the more she collected tips left on tables or handed to her directly. She hid them in her cleavage for she had no pockets sewn on her dress, and _that_ was distracting. 

“... A huge white wolf, like a demon he told me...” 

Percival tilted his head slightly to the right, suddenly interested in his neighbors’ conversation. 

“Who did?” One of them asked. He was short, well built with thick arms and thighs, had a gap-toothed smile and a silver loop glinting on his ear. Perhaps a woodcutter, a blacksmith or a construction worker. 

His interlocutor contrasted with his rugged, rough appearance; he was soft, his belly stretching the material of his crimson doublet, his hair blond and curled atop his head. His cheeks were flushed red, perhaps because of the heat. He wore no accessories save for a ring on his index finger, when noblemen were known to display their wealth in the most ostentatious manner, so Percival pegged him as a merchant. 

“Well, I heard it from Jacques, who heard it from Samuel, who met Viktor not long ago, who swore that he had seen it with his own two eyes.” The merchant fiddled with his ring with a pleasant smile, but his friend seemed to deflate, disappointed. 

“Psscht. Just a rumor then, tha’ old man was drunk!” 

“He was not!” The merchant protested. “Viktor’s never drunk a drop of alcohol in all the time that I’ve known him. He says it makes him sick, and that his wife doesn’t like it when he drinks. Can you imagine? Oh, thanks, love,” he added to the barmaid who’d just come back with their drinks. Percival starred in front of him, pretending _very hard_ not to listen, but they talked too loudly for him _not_ to hear. 

“What’d he say then?” 

“He said that he was just travelling towards the East with his carriage full of fabric and other goods, minding his own business, when he met a man who was accompanied by a wolf the size of a _horse._ Bigger, even ! He said he couldn’t believe his eyes at first, thought he was hallucinating, but then the man talked to him, and he had all the time in the world to look at the beast, and he swore it was the most terrifying and magnificent thing he’d ever seen. He pissed his pants.” 

His interlocutor raised his thin eyebrows. “You sure he didn’t hit his head? Came down with something? Got a sunburn and started seein’ things?” 

“No, flu season is over, he’s not ill!” The man waved his hand. “Plus, he swore on his _mother’s grave_ what he said was true and that he wasn’t, and I quote, fuckin’ messin’ with us all. I mean, you know Viktor, you know how serious he is when it comes to his dear old Ma...” 

“Bigger than a horse?” The man shook his head. “I don’t believe it. He was pulling Samuel’s leg.” In that moment Percival got distracted by the barmaid finally bringing him his steaming dinner (eggs and mashed potatoes), which he immediately started eating with gusto. “And he saw this _when?”_

“I don’t know, weeks ago? Since Sam didn’t believe him, he added details.” The merchant crossed his hands in front of him and leaned in. “For example, he said the man wore an ugly purple jacket, that he carried a lute on his back, and that the wolf had golden eyes like fire…” He trailed off with a frown, seeming to realize how fantastical that sounded. “Well, now that I say it, it does sound like a stretch of the imagination.... Viktor probably exaggerated and it was just a big dog. He _is_ getting old after all, and his sight has always been terrible… But from what Sam told Jack, Viktor talked about it with such conviction that it was impossible not to believe he was telling the truth. If it’s not the truth, that means Viktor is going mad, which is also interesting, but less so.” 

“A bard with a wolf, uh? And you believe it?” 

“Of course not. But if Viktor isn’t mad and it is true… Can you imagine such a monster walking around freely?” 

“Booollocks,” the man drawled. “I'll believe it when I see it. And why the bard? This a fairytale or what?” 

The merchant shrugged. Percival thought this was the perfect moment to give his own two cents, even if no one had asked him. 

“I met a bard on the way here,” he stated. The two men turned to him as one, giving him a quick once-over to see who the fuck he was. “Sorry, couldn’t help but overhear. I’m a hunter, you see, and lately I have been looking for… a challenge?” He smiled at them awkwardly. The merchant looked at him with interest. He held out a hand with short, stubby fingers. Percival shook it. 

“Why, that’s interesting,” the merchant said. “I’m Aleksander Bourn. I deal in leather and fur!” He smiled with all his teeth. “You interested in this white wolf, hunter?” 

“If what you and your friend say is true, it could make for a very interesting catch.” 

The merchant chortled. “Oh surely, surely, the biggest prize of your carrier! And you say you met a bard?” 

“Yeah, couple weeks ago. Hmm - Jaskier, you must have heard of him? He was struggling with his horse on the side of the road. It was amusing.” 

“Oh, that rings a bell. But did he wear purple?” 

“No. Blue.” 

“Well there you go!” The short man slammed the palm of his hand on the table in mock disappointment. “It was all made up. How the fuck could a wolf be this size, and much less tame, and also _why the fucking bard?_ It’s all fantasy man, sounds like one of the stories I tell my children at night.” 

“Perhaps,” Percival said. He had to admit following the trail of such improbable whispers wasn’t the best way to make a living as a respectable hunter. But he'd done the same old thing for over twenty years now, and he was _bored,_ and this? This sounded different! This sounded exciting! 

Besides, wasn’t he just, a moment ago, thinking that the bard had been fidgety and looked uncomfortable in Percival’s presence, almost like… 

… Like he was hiding something? 

Oh, oh... -- fuck, he could remember now how often Jaskier had glanced towards the little cottage, which Percival hadn’t paid any attention to because it was in ruins; he remembered now how Jaskier had nervously wrung his hands, and how tight-lipped his smiles had been… 

A white wolf and a bard… Could it be…? 

Pff, no. It was ludicrous. And besides, the bard was long gone by now. Although he said he had been heading towards Posada, so catching up to him wouldn’t be a difficult task… Unless he had lied. But what reason would he have to lie? 

Percival could feel desire surging within him : the thrill of a new chase, the blood pumping through his veins, his heartbeat quickening. He imagined himself hunting down Jaskier, _catching_ him, asking him if there was any truth to the interesting rumors he’d heard. Was that why Jaskier had been so nervous around him? He'd say. Was that why he had been so eager to see Percival go? And Jaskier would tremble and quiver beneath his hands, and he would fight back, and it would be _marvelous_. Percival bit his lips. Fuck, it was completely mad, but his gut feeling told him there might be a sliver of truth to this story after all. All legends were based on something real, and that white wolf was the stuff of legend. He was a hunter. He always trusted his instincts. He had met the bard. All of this couldn't be a coincidence. There was no such thing as a coincidence. But it was ridiculous. Insane. He didn’t doubt his own ability to track down the bard, but if he did and it was all for naught, he would look absolutely mad. He would have obsessed over a man and hurt him for nothing. Still. It might be fun. And he could always find some actual work on the way; the white wolf, if he existed, could be the big prize at the end of a treasure hunt, in which the simple game he usually caught were the clues. 

What if the rumors were true? Even partially? Was this the _challenge_ he’d been waiting for? Destiny worked in mysterious ways. He could feel the pull, the calling. The merchant laid a silver crown in front of him, catching the hunter’s attention. “I am hiring you,” he said solemnly with a greedy glint in his eyes, “to track down and kill this... _white wolf_. We’ll see if he is as monstrous as Viktor says. If not, he owes me.” 

“Deal,” Percival said. He reached for the silver coin, but the merchant tutted and laid his hand over it faster. 

“Promise to sell his hide to me.” 

“Sure,” Percival said. He didn’t particularly care. For the first time in a long while, he was in it for the thrill of the hunt and not just for the coin. “I promise.” 

“Perfect.” The merchant drew back, letting Percival take the coin. Next to them, the third man was ogling them both as if they had gone a bit insane. “Well,” he commented, chugging down the rest of his ale impressively quickly. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Good luck with that, hunter. Chasing down illusions.” 

“Hmm.” Percival smiled and shrugged. He was allowed a little mid-life crisis. Everyone had one at some point. Perhaps this was it for him. He got up and stretched his arms above his head, making the joints pop. “I’ll be back.”

“I give you two months!” The merchant said loudly. “Two months, and if you don’t come back here, I’ll assume you’re dead!” 

Percival inclined his head. He did not intend to die. 

He just wanted to feel something again. 

The best course of action was to go right to the source of the rumors, namely that other merchant, Viktor. Or at least that is where he would start if this was a normal hunt; but he kept seeing Jaskier in his head. Jaskier the bard, Jaskier the bard with his bright clothing and cornflower blue eyes… 

Once again, he felt like something was _pushing_ him in Jaskier’s direction, inviting him to go after the bard first, against all reason. And who was Percival not to listen? Destiny was not to be played with. Bad things happened to men who chose to ignore it. 

\----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again ! thank you for reading, you rock !!! <333


	6. Vengerberg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another lenghty chapter - i hope you like it ! <3  
> thank you again for the new subscriptions, comments and kudos !! i love you dear readers !!! <333

“Sweet Melitele’s tits,” Jaskier moaned around a mouthful of roasted pheasant leg. The meat had been cooked to perfection, served with an onion-based sauce and figs for an added touch of sweetness. After weeks of eating nothing but dried jerky and half-spoiled fruits, Jaskier’s taste buds were in heaven. “This is _delicious!"_

As in in answer to his exclamation, one half of the table to his right roared with laughter. The men were red-faced, loud and increasingly excited, a result of the wine having flowed freely all evening. Jaskier sat among them, eating his meal with gusto, uncaring about the grease and the juice that dribbled down his chin and made his fingers sticky. He did deserve a reward for all his recent efforts. Sadly Geralt wasn't there to enjoy this royal feast, courtesy of King Demavend. Jaskier wished he was, but it was impossible as his companion was still stuck in the body of a wolf. How long had it been now since they first met? More than three weeks? A month? The bard would bring food to Geralt later, leaving on horseback to meet him in a clearing in the nearby woods, with a pannier full of appetizing things. He knew Geralt was a skilled hunter and could fend for himself just fine alone in the forest, but in Jaskier's opinion, there was a still a notable difference in quality between the mouthwatering meal he was currently having, and a poor rabbit eaten raw after a long, difficult chase. Geralt would appreciate the intention. 

Sitting to the King’s left was Queen Oliwia, a middle-aged, elegant and poised woman dressed in a green silk gown with silver trimmings. Embroidered birds in shades of grey and blue pearls glittered at her neck, arm sleeves, and the hem of her dress visible underneath the long oak table. Jaskier itched with the need to talk to her about fashion, for she seemed to have fine taste. The King’s tunic, and the outfit their son, the young Prince Edward, wore were similarly colored. Jaskier himself had been gifted new, expensive clothing - fine work from the royal family’s tailor - as he couldn’t well attend a court banquet wearing the old clothes he’d had on when travelling with Geralt. He was _very_ fond of his new outfit: it wasn’t as detailed or sophisticated as those of the royal family or even the nobles around him, but it was brightly colored and that was what Jaskier cared about. His tights were red and his doublet a deep blue. He even had a hat on, held carefully in place with bobby pins so he could move and sing and play the lute without it falling off his head. 

After another two long weeks of travel, he and Geralt had finally made it to their destination : Vengerberg, the capital of Aedirn. Following the creepy desert monster _thing_ and then almost starving to death, they fortunately hadn’t had any other remarkable accidents on the way, which Jaskier thanked the Gods for. 

He kept tending to Geralt’s injured leg everyday, applying salve and bandaging it until he ran out of medical supplies, and by the time he did Geralt was completely healed. The man-wolf still growled in pain if he moved the wrong way, but the wound had healed nicely, rapidly (a bit too fast to be normal, but Jaskier assumed the salve was just _that_ efficient), and his fur had almost completely grown back. 

Jaskier had really been looking forward to being in Vengerberg, thinking that it might finally be the end of their difficult quest, and hoping foolishly that they would find a mage who’d be able to break the curse to free Geralt. But alas, it was not meant to be. 

Indeed, as soon as the city was in sight, Jaskier had once more been obligated to leave Geralt behind in the nearby woods. He’d gone through Vengerberg and walked up the winding paved street that led to the King’s castle, a looming structure set in stone that looked down on the rest of the city. Vengerberg itself didn’t hold a candle to the bright, colorful city of Oxenfurt which remained Jaskier’s favorite, but it was charming in its own way. He admired the tight rows of similar-looking houses built with a mix of red and white bricks (cob and clay, the first being a particularity of this region), the fine embroidery and lace displayed in a couple shops, the funny sculpted faces engraved above the porch of some houses. The city was also bigger and more airy than all the backwater villages they’d been at so far. It truly was lovely, and Jaskier, who had layers of dirt and grime on his face and hadn’t spoken to another human being in two weeks, felt just a bit out of place. But the feeling would pass. 

He reached the castle gate. It was open, the drawbridge down and suspended over the deep moat and guarded by two fierce looking soldiers wearing an armor of silver. Jaskier pitied them - the sun shone high in the sky and the two men must have been pretty much boiling alive inside their armor. The inner courtyard of the castle was wide, bustling with life. Servants busied themselves, hurrying to and fro around him, carrying various things from an empty wooden tray to a basket full of clean linens. Chickens mingled with a group of children playing jacks, while a dog barked up at a man who yelled back at it to shut up because he was _trying to have a conversation here._

Jaskier took advantage of the fountain in the middle of the courtyard to clean himself up a little. He had noticed a line of people which seemed to go on past the stone archway he could see separating the courtyard from another part of the castle. Jaskier stepped in line behind a balding man who carried in a tight grip a foul-smelling cloth bag. He wrinkled his delicate nose - he didn’t want to know what was in that bag. He still talked to the farmer (whose rugged appearance, sunburnt skin and rough clothes gave his profession away) and confirmed what he had already guessed: these people had all come to see the King, in the daily allotted time the ruler reserved to meet them and hear their pleas. Jaskier just had to wait patiently for his turn, and then he would tell King Demavend his story (with all the proper revisions and embellishments needed to protect Geralt), and ask if the resident mage could help them. He really hoped he hadn’t been misguided and that the answer would be positive. 

In the end, the outcome of the meeting turned out to be quite different from anything Jaskier had imagined : first, the King surprised him by recognizing who he was after Jaskier introduced himself. It seemed the reputation he’d worked so hard for had preceded him, a realization that made him quite flustered. Secondly, King Demavend did not -much to Jaskier’s chagrin - have a mage at his side. The Queen, who had seemed amazed by Jaskier’s tale of heroics and friendship about his poor companion-turned-wolf, indeed informed him that while they called a mage in from times to times for truly difficult matters, the kingdom of Aedirn did not have an assigned, permanent consultant -- contrary to others like Cintra. 

“Oh,” Jaskier said, unable to hide his disappointment. “I see... Thank you, your Majesty - I will not take up anymore of your time...” 

“The mage I know,” said the King, “is a woman named Yennefer of Vengerberg. The last time I tried to contact her, I received a message that appeared out of thin air telling me she would be unavailable in the near future for she had gone to Aretuza to attend the monthly meeting of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers.” 

“Aretuza,” Jaskier repeated, furrowing his brow. It rung a bell - hadn’t Agnes the hobbit healer mentioned that specific place too? “I’ve heard of it. My and my friend shall head that way then, to the West. It is our last hope. Thank you for your help, your Majesty.” 

“Wait,” said Queen Oliwia suddenly. “It would be a pleasure to have you stay a bit longer, Master Jaskier. You see, our son is celebrating his ten-year anniversary this Sunday, and we have yet to find the perfect bard to entertain at the party! But from what we’ve heard about you, it seems you are very good - one of the best minstrels on the Continent. The fates sent you here to us just in time.” Her eyes were twinkling with hope. The thought of refusing didn’t even cross Jaskier’s mind - he would have to be mad. 

“Y - you flatter me greatly, your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing deeply. He was giddy with excitement. “Why it would be a great honor to stay of course!” 

“Wonderful!” The Queen said, smiling, and King Demavend nodded his approval. “Prince Edward will be very happy. Anna!” She called, and a young maiden wearing a light purple dress hurried to the Queen’s side. Anna curtsied in front of Jaskier and looked up at him; she was young and fair, had a heart-shaped face, thick eyelashes and a beauty spot right beneath her right eye, which only added to her charm. “Please lead Master Jaskier to one of the vacant rooms, he will be staying with us for a few days. Make sure a bath is ready as well, and seek Valentin - he is our family’s tailor,” she explained for Jaskier’s sake, “once our new guest is settled to have him take his measurements. Take Master Jaskier’s clothes to the laundry as well,” she added as an afterthought. “Do you have anything else to wear?” 

“I’m - I’m afraid not, my lady,” Jaskier said, quite ashamed. “Besides another chemise and a pair of pants… As I explained, life on the road was hard, this adventure took me quite by surprise, and I had to save my... hard-earned money.” 

“Of course, of course. Well, Valentin will find you some clothing to suit your tastes, I’m sure.” 

“Will that be all, your Majesty?” Anna said. 

“That will be all, thank you Anna.” 

Jaskier bowed deeply once more, thanking the King and Queen for their warm welcome, their kindness and generosity, and promised spontaneously to sing their praises in a new ballad before the end of the week. The King dismissed him and called for the next person to come in while Jaskier hurriedly left the room and followed the maiden Anna in the castle’s labyrinthine corridors. 

For his first night in Vengerberg, Jaskier had as promised been able to enjoy a hot bath, and then received the visit of the tailor, Valentin, with whom he got along immediately. The man took his measurements, and before sunset Anna came knocking on the door of his room again, bringing along the clothes he would wear at the feast. She waited as he tried them on behind a folding screen. Instead of simply telling her he was indeed very satisfied with Valentin’s work so she could go back to the man and report his words, Jaskier walked up to her and did a little twirl to show off his new ensemble. It made her smile at him for the first time, cute dimples appearing on the apples of her cheeks, and Jaskier felt the telltale butterflies in his stomach. 

Oh he was going to enjoy his stay here, he _knew._ Anna left and Jaskier went back to his lute to practice. He needed to give a flawless performance that evening - wouldn’t want to disappoint the King and Queen nor the court after all. His bardic reputation was on the line! He carefully made a list of what songs he would play, prepared of course to change his tune at a moment’s notice if anyone requested it; he would pay particular attention to the young Prince Edward and his reactions. It was clear the King and Queen doted on their son, and if Edward didn’t like the performance, Jaskier was… 

Well he wasn’t a dead man, but close enough. 

\--- 

He needn’t have worried. His performance had been, if he dared say so himself, flawless. His audience was very responsive, the Queen and Prince Edward had even clapped and cheered in time with his singing, and at the end of it all Jaskier was high on a cloud of success and _very_ satisfied with himself. He bowed to his audience, smiling brightly, and from where he was on the tiny stage he caught Anna’s eye. The maid had been staring at him, her tray of grapes and nuts forgotten, and she startled and blushed deeply when Jaskier winked at her. 

He was very happy. Coming to Vengerberg had been a great idea after all, even if they did not quite find what they were looking for… 

The applause faded, conversation resumed and Jaskier jumped off the stage, intent on finally getting his hands on some of that delicious-looking food that tempted him since he had first entered the great hall. He encased his lute, then took a random vacant seat at one of the long tables in between two noblemen. He tucked the instrument between his legs to keep it safe, and started filling his plate with food: roasted pheasant, potatoes, mushrooms, salad, figs and so on and so forth, then he dug in -- moaning in pleasure at the rich taste. This was perfect. 

He would stay a week at the castle… Hopefully bed that cute servant, aaand perhaps another one if he was a lucky man; he would sing and entertain, he’d be well-fed, well-clothed, and the whole thing would bring his reputation as a bard up to a superior level if everything kept going smoothly the way it had so far. 

Moreover, he would leave at the end of the week with a hefty bag of coin that would help Geralt and him reach their next and final destination : Aretuza. One week, and then he and Geralt would take the road again : Jaskier intended to enjoy his comforts while he could. 

\---- 

The feast lasted late into the night. 

At the demand of Prince Edward, Jaskier was called on to play a few more jigs. He stayed away from the more saucy songs the nobles tended to request at this point and sang tales about dragons, princesses and knights, Prince Edward hanging onto his every word. Jaskier felt pleasantly fuzzy - that red wine from Toussaint was an absolute treasure - and he couldn't seem to stop smiling like a loon. He sang to his heart’s content, even got a few coins tossed his way in appreciation which only made him feel even better. He was _born_ for this : the creative process, the performance, the music, the smiles, the cheers, the hollers and the good humor he brought everywhere he played. He lived for the applause and the feeling of profound satisfaction he experienced when he _knew_ he’d done a good job. And tonight, he was at the top of his game. 

Young Prince Edward was sent to bed a couple hours after sunset; and when the moon was high in the sky, the nobles started retiring too, one by one after bowing to their King. When only a dozen people remained the Queen also left, and Jaskier decided it was time he leave too not to end up like that one man who had fallen asleep at the table, his hand curled around a glass of wine. He was happily snoring, and nobody seemed to pay any attention to him, including the servants who were starting to clear the tables - as if he was a familiar sight. 

Jaskier was incredibly tired, what with walking for the major part of the day in the heat and then this unexpected but very welcome turn of events. 

Tomorrow, at the first hour, he would head down to the kitchens and get food for Geralt. But in the meantime, all he aspired to was a good night’s sleep in a warm and comfortable bed. Jaskier bid goodnight to the King (engrossed in conversation with one of his advisors), took his lute, grabbed an apple off one of the tables and headed to his own quarters. He met a few servants on the way and asked that a bath be drawn for him in the morning. 

Then, finally alone, he entered his room and locked the door behind him. Jaskier breathed deeply, leaning back against the door for a minute. Humming a merry tune, he started getting ready for bed. His lute was safely set down on a cushioned armchair as if it was an esteemed guest. The bard walked up to the window and half-opened it to let in a cool night breeze. He had just finished changing into his night clothes - a simple cotton tunic that fell just above his knees - when he heard a wolf howling in the distance. 

Jaskier nearly tripped over his own feet as he ran to the window. He peered into the darkness, but there was nothing to see except the King’s own gardens right below his quarters and, further away, wide expanses of fields. Yet he heard it again, the loud, melodious howling of a wolf that he couldn’t see, and his heart raced in his chest. He swallowed - it probably wasn’t Geralt, there had to be other wolf packs in the forest - but then, a normal wolf wouldn’t be able to have been heard from so far. Was Geralt alright? Was he just wondering what the hell Jaskier was up to because he hadn’t yet come back? 

“I'm fine, you idiot! I haven’t forgotten you!” He said stupidly as if Geralt could hear him back. He couldn’t scream lest people in the castle wonder if he had lost his marbles, which was the opposite of what he wanted to achieve in staying here. Can’t have people thinking the bard Jaskier played well but was a bit _odd_ , talking to himself at night and screaming at the moon. “I’ll be there in the morning!” 

Whether Geralt (if it was truly him and not just Jaskier’s wishful thinking) heard him he didn’t know, but the howling did stop. It had sounded close, too. The poor villagers who lived closest to the woods must be very worried now. 

He and Geralt really couldn’t linger here - a week was already playing with fire, but Jaskier had no choice. If needed, they would agree on a time and place to meet again. He would tell Geralt he needed to stay quiet and unseen until that time came. They hadn’t traveled all the way here for him to meet his end at the hands of a scared mob of townsfolk armed with pitchforks - even more so since Geralt was just done healing from his previous injury. 

It was probably a side effect of having saved Geralt’s life and then caring for him for so long, but Jaskier felt extremely protective of his companion. He had been thinking recently that if someone so much as _looked_ at Geralt the wrong way, he would be this close to losing it. And if someone _dared_ to attack Geralt while he was in the vicinity he would go absolutely feral. Even if Geralt didn’t really need his help. While Jaskier did not have fangs or claws, he had spite, anger, and depths of negative feelings buried deep inside him that only waited a spark to raise their ugly heads. He was not helpless. The point was : Jaskier cared deeply about Geralt, and vice-versa. To survive, they both needed to be careful, and they knew it. Howling to the moon to attract the attention of not only Jaskier but every person around was reckless. Geralt ought to know better than that. 

That night, Jaskier’s slumber was disturbed by nightmares involving people, places and memories that he thought he had long since forgotten. Geralt was thrown in the middle of it all.

They were in the forest. In his dream, Jaskier saw Geralt as a man for the first time. He had no face, but he stood tall and proud and Jaskier _knew_ it was him. Dream-Geralt had white hair and a limp. The both of them were running through the woods because they were being chased by an unknown entity. Jaskier, terrified, kept urging Geralt to go faster, and Geralt followed him - followed him - followed him - eerily silent, not even _breathing_ , his face a blank canvas, his footsteps light and lightning-fast. 

Jaskier suddenly had the terrible impression that Geralt was the predator and he the prey. He stopped. Geralt ran past him, and straight into the arms of Percival, who appeared out of nowhere to aim his crossbow right between Geralt’s eyes. 

Geralt stopped, silent. 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” Jaskier asked Percival with emotion. “It’s the middle of the night!” 

As if that was the most important thing. Jaskier remembered the hunter’s kind smile, his friendly demeanor, but all that had vanished. Only the hunter remained. Percival was staring at them with a merciless, ruthless, calculating look in his dark eyes. Jaskier stumbled back as the man switched targets, aiming his weapon at _him_ this time. 

Geralt didn’t move. Under the moonlight, he looked like a sculpture carved out of marble - beautiful but lifeless, void of any emotion. 

“Saving you,” Percival said, and shot him. “You need to wake up, Jaskier. _Wake up.”_

The deadly arrow wheeled around above their heads like a bird, following its unnatural course as if it were trying to decide who to strike first. Percival fired another one. Jaskier tried to run to Geralt to save him, but the air was as thick as molasses. He was helpless. The first arrow went through Geralt’s neck. Blood splattered on the ground. The faceless man fell to his knees, and Jaskier screamed. 

“He’s not real!” Percival laughed. Jaskier watched in horror as the second arrow embedded itself in the hunter’s chest, piercing through clothes, skin, muscle and bone all the way until it burst out of his back with a sickening crack. It started morphing into a tree branch as Percival choked on his own blood. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt then said from behind him. A wolf howled into the night. “ _Look_ at me. See me.” 

“No,” Jaskier said, scared shitless to turn around. He slapped his hands over his ears and screwed his eyes shut to block it all out. “You’re not him.” 

His Geralt was down. He was dead. He was gone. 

Silence. 

Jaskier looked at his hands. They were covered in black blood. In front of him Geralt was dead, but Percival was nowhere to be seen. Who had been the hunter all along? 

“NO!” Jaskier screamed and woke up lying in bed, covered in sweat, feeling like his heart was trying to break his ribcage open to crawl out of it. “Nnngh - fuck,” he breathed shakily, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. He wiped them with his sleeve. “Fuck, what the _fuck_ was that?!” 

Memories of his dream were already fading, but he could remember with perfect clarity a few terrible images: Percival being pinned in place by a tree branch like a fucking butterfly to a panel, and Geralt -- two arms, two legs, and a body without a face. 

“Fuck,” he said again, passing his hand over his face. He was trembling - it had been a long time since he’d had a nightmare so vivid. 

But it was just a dream. It was _just_ a dream. None of that had happened. Geralt was just fine. Of course he had a face, maybe a handsome one which Jaskier would see when he turned back into a man, and as for Percival? Why he would _never_ meet the hunter again in his life! The Continent was so big it was very rare to meet the same stranger twice, unless you agreed with them to see each other again, which was not happening here. 

Ugh. “Stupid brain,” Jaskier mumbled. Gods, what time was it? He still felt completely exhausted. Dawn was not even close... Jaskier turned onto his side, brought his knees up to his chest and forced himself to regulate his breathing in order to get a few more hours of sleep. Trust him to sleep better in the woods using Geralt as a pillow than in a large-sized bed covered in the softest blankets. Ridiculous. 

When morning came, Jaskier could only remember having spent a bad night but not the details of his nightmare. It was quickly forgotten. 

\-----

The next morning, after a bath, a new change of clothes and a quiet breakfast, Jaskier followed a servant down to the kitchens. They passed through the courtyard then headed down a flight of stairs into a large room in which food of all kind covered almost every available surface. Ham legs, sausages, onions and a variety of herbs wrapped up with string hung from the ceiling; a group of three women were chattering merrily as they kneaded dough, clouds of flour rising into the air with every one of their movement. 

Given that he had spoken to the King the day before, Jaskier's story was not exactly a secret, and in an enclosed space such as a castle rumors traveled fast. Which is why the head cook, upon seeing him, immediately welcomed him with a warm “You must be the bard everyone talks about!” and asked what he could do for him. Had he had a nice night? Was breakfast not to his liking? Jaskier reassured him and complimented the man’s cooking skills - that brioche he’d had at breakfast was song-worthy, and the omelette? Oh, simply to die for. The cook, well buttered up, readily agreed then to prepare for Jaskier a basket full of food. 

“This for your friend?” The plump man asked, cutting a big-sized piece of emmenthal out of an impressively large block of cheese. “Ah' heard the rumors. S’nasty, wha’ happened to the poor man.” 

“Ahah, yes,” Jaskier said. “Turned into a _dog_ because he offended the wrong mage, can you imagine.” 

“Not really,” the man muttered, seeming to think that this was no laughing matter. “Curses are nasty business." He handed Jaskier the basket, which had been filled to the brim and now contained a ham leg, cheese, a few apples, a waterskin, and even cheesecake. Jaskier eyed the basket with interest, mourning the fact that Geralt would no doubt wolf the whole thing down without even tasting the fine food he was being offered. He thanked the cook pompously, as well as the rest of the kitchen staff, and then took the basket up with him to the courtyard, heading next to the stables. 

His horse, Pegasus, had been well taken care of, and neighed happily when he saw Jaskier. Next to him, a stable hand was busy brushing his flank, a smile on his face. Pegasus’ tail kept moving to chase swarms of flies away. The stable hand helped him by crushing a horsefly with his thumb and wiping the blood on his dirty trousers. 

“Master Jaskier!” The boy said when he noticed him. He bowed, and Jaskier nodded in return. He set the heavy basket of food down, and put his hands on his hips with a huff. “Do you need me to get Pegasus ready, sir?” 

“Please. I’ll be leaving for a few hours. If you could also load the food from this basket into one of the paniers, that’d be lovely, thank you.” 

“Yes sir,” the stable hand said, eyeing the basket at Jaskier’s feet. He bit his lips. “May I ask where you are going, sir?” 

“Oh, I’m just going to walk around,” Jaskier said vaguely. “In the fields or the forest, where my feet lead me, where my _Muse_ calls me... Inspiration is a fickle thing to find.” 

“I like your songs,” the boy said simply, remusing brushing Pegasus' coat. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.” 

“So do I, boy,” Jaskier sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “So do I.” 

\------

Geralt was grumpy when he finally found him, and so was Jaskier. He’d had to go way deeper into the forest than he was comfortable with when he knew Geralt heard him arrive from afar and could have just gone ahead to meet him halfway. 

Instead he found the wolf lying down among a strange arrangement of rocks, half hidden in the shade of a tree whose thick branches and leaves brushed the ground. He glared up at Geralt from Pegasus' back as the wolf opened one golden eye and then pointedly turned his head away. Perhaps he had had a bad night as well. 

“Great,” Jaskier muttered. “So you’re in a bad mood, I’m in a bad mood, everyone’s in a bad mood! What is it, Geralt? Frustrated with your condition? Your bad leg acting up again? Nightmares, just like me? Well fuck off!” Jaskier dismounted the horse, and unclasped the pannier containing the food with more emotion than was necessary. “Being mad at the world won’t help either of us. I swore to the gods I’d help you find a cure, and I’m sure, I am positively certain that we _will,_ but we just have to be _patient._ Which sucks, I know.” 

He rounded the small hill Geralt had found to rest. It was carpeted with fallen tree leaves and twigs that cracked beneath Jaskier’s feet as he climbed up. Geralt finally deigned to move, shaking himself awake as Jaskier found an uncomfortable seat on one of the rocks. He hadn’t tied Pegasus to a tree, but he doubted there was anyone else there and his horse wouldn’t go running away - not when he’d found a tasty spot of green grass to munch on. Pegasus was a glutton. 

Geralt nosed at the pannier, suddenly interested in its contents. He stepped back when Jaskier opened it, and growled at the scent and sight of the big ham leg within. Jaskier put the meat down on one of the rocks; predictably, Geralt was done with it in two seconds flat. 

He licked his chops and whined softly, then came closer to Jaskier and headbutted him gently in the shoulder - his way of asking for pats. Jaskier smiled as his bad mood melted away. He gave Geralt the rest of the food, and talked while his friend ate. “There was no mage at the castle,” he informed Geralt. “We’ll need to go to Aretuza. I’m sorry.” Geralt’s shoulders dropped a bit, but he resumed eating as though to distract himself from the bad news. 

“The King and Queen asked me to stay until the end of the week to play at their son’s tenth birthday party. I couldn’t refuse. I’ll be visiting you and bringing you food here,” he said quietly, “and then come Monday we’ll leave again. I’m sorry, I wish things were easier for you. The Queen said they did consult a mage from times to times, a woman named… what was it? Jennifer? No, Yennefer.” Geralt raised his head abruptly and stared at Jaskier. A bit of half-chewed apple fell from his mouth. “Hmm? Name rings a bell? Well, you’ll tell me all about it when you can talk. So Agnes wasn't entirely wrong in directing us here. Anyway, that mage is not here at the moment and the King can’t contact her, so we have to keep travelling as originally planned. We’ve been doing well so far.” He inched closer and placed his hand on Geralt’s broad shoulder, petting him absently while the wolf licked the remains of his meal. Jaskier glanced inside the basket - he’d eaten it all, even the cake. Shame. It looked delicious. “Was that _you_ howling last night?” 

The wolf rumbled, his tell-tale ‘hmm’ sound. 

“Well,” Jaskier said, “I understand you were worried, but don’t do it again. I told people my friend had been turned into a dog, not a scaringly large white wolf." He waved at Geralt's everything. He'd gotten used to his size by now, but he could still remember the terror he'd felt when he first laid eyes on the wolf. "Don’t go attracting attention like that again. We might come across other hunters, or bandits, or worse…” He murmured and trailed off. Geralt whined and put his large head down on Jaskier’s lap, trying to offer comfort as he could. He was heavy, but Jaskier didn't mind. “But that won’t happen! Alright, I’ll stay with you a bit longer, but I have to go back to the castle soon. I need to grace the halls with my presence and show the King and Queen I am very grateful for their support and generous invitation. I promised I’d write a song in their honor, and well it won’t write itself now will it? And an honorable man keeps his word.” 

Jaskier kept rambling a bit more, until he felt it was time to go. “Remember,” he said to Geralt once he’d mounted Pegasus again. He pulled on the reins to make the horse turn around so they could go back the way they came. From his slightly higher viewpoint, Geralt was watching them with something like sadness in his eyes. “Don’t draw any attention to yourself. Avoid humans, go hide somewhere. I’ll meet you there again in two days’ time - I think I’ll draw too much attention myself if I leave everyday… See you around, Geralt. I really hope we’ll find a cure in Aretuza. No, screw that - we _will_ find a cure in Aretuza. You’re breaking my heart with your puppy eyes, don't look at me like that. It's going to be alright, my friend. You’ll be back to your old self in no time. Have courage.” 

Geralt barked softly in reply. 

It was all Jaskier needed; he left, sending Pegasus into a trot, and tried to ignore the weight of Geralt’s gaze on his back. 

Guilt made him feel a bit nauseous, but he hadn’t lied - he really couldn’t refuse a royal invitation. What difference would it make if they left for Aretuza now or in one week? Sure, they would probably arrive sooner, but that wasn’t even a given as the roads were so unpredictable anything might happen to them susceptible to slow them down. 

If Jaskier stayed he would make money, and his making money also helped Geralt. And - no lying to himself there - he did enjoy luxury, damn it. Warm meals and fine clothes and good company. He was at ease here, performing for the court within those castle walls. He enjoyed travelling, of course, the discoveries he would make, the people he would meet, the call of the unexpected and of _adventure_. But too much of either of those contrasting things was not good for him. He could admit that recently it had felt like too much. He _had_ gotten a bit tired of travelling with Geralt. 

Truth be told, they hadn’t made any progress in finding a cure since finding out Geralt’s name thanks to Agnes’ help. Things were moving so slow, and the fact that there was no mage here in Vengerberg had been another blow - although Jaskier hid it well. It all felt a bit hopeless as they couldn’t see any results to their efforts yet. Jaskier’s good cheer had lost some of its honesty. And Geralt… Geralt probably knew it, could sense it. 

But Jaskier would _never_ leave him behind. He didn’t talk about any of this, kept his fickle feelings to himself. As he said he was a man of his word, and he would accompany Geralt to the end of this little quest of theirs. This - the young Prince Edward’s birthday - actually came at just the right time! It was what he needed, the opportunity for him to take the time to recoup, to rest, in order to then have renewed amounts of energy and optimism when it was time to journey with Geralt again.

This was good for him, and it felt right, and he shouldn’t feel guilty about it. Geralt knew he was trying his best for the both of them. 

And Geralt was trying too to show in little ways that he cared. Since the desert monster, he’d gotten more affectionate, even more talkative in a way, always expressing himself in various lengths and volumes of barks and growls, so much so that Jaskier could almost understand him. He’d gotten quite good at reading Geralt’s body language too. And the wolf still hunted for him, trying to provide for Jaskier, trying to help in any way he could despite the limitations of being a wolf, trying to show Jaskier that they were _equals_. 

It was very touching and, despite his tiredness, it only made Jaskier more determined to find a cure. 

And they would. He had no doubts about that. He and Geralt would stay together until they were successful, and then… Well, then they would see what happened, but he hoped Geralt would still want him around. 

He wouldn’t say no to a friend and a travel companion, and he had an inkling that Geralt might just feel the same way. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what did you think of this chapter? what do you think is going to happen? let me know in the comments ! see you next time <3


	7. The Prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He struggled against his bonds as Percival narrowed his eyes. “I’m a viscount, I could have you both hanged for less than that! Come now, this is ridiculous!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooooo folks ! :D i'm done with finals!!! yay !!!! 
> 
> buckle up because shit is about to go DOWN in this chapter and the next !!!!!!!!! 
> 
> **PLEASE PAY ATTENTION** to the updated rating, warnings and tags for this story (Jaskier is not having the best time in this chapter) and enjoy !! ❤︎

Percival tugged on the reins to slow his horse down to a walking pace. He was finally at the open gates of the city of Vengerberg, where he stepped in line behind a merchant’s cart filled with baskets of (judging by the smell) fish. The weather was colder and cloudy today with a constant drizzle that soaked through everyone’s clothes and made people even grumpier than usual. In front of him, the merchant sneezed in the middle of his customary “nothing to declare” speech to the guards, before moving off and entering the city. Percival was next. 

“Profession?” The soldier asked. 

“Hunter. Just passing through. Say, what’s your personal recommendation for an inn?” 

The guard grunted and stuck to the protocol. “Nothing to declare?” 

“Nothing to declare.” Percival sighed. Whatever, he’d just pick one of the first places he saw away from the city centre, for in his experience the inns and restaurants hidden in narrow streets were usually less expensive and of better quality. He kicked his horse to get him moving again at the guard’s nod and entered Vengerberg. 

The streets were paved, a nice change from the usual muddy ground of villages. With the arrival of summer, people had taken to hanging wreaths of flowers to their windows. It looked like a nice place to settle down one day and Percival took note of it. If he ever wanted to retire from hunting and find himself a lovely wife, he could always come here. He found an inn called _The Bear Cave_ and left his stallion in the stables, at the hands of a gangly, spotty teenager, along with a piece of silver to make sure he took great care of Fawkes. 

He pulled off his hood and shook raindrops from his hair as he walked into the inn’s busy tavern. It was packed, people taking shelter from the rain in a place where there was a roaring fire, food, and drink aplenty. The jovial atmosphere warmed him from head to toe. Percival sat at a free table near a group of four men playing a game of Gwent. It didn’t take long until a plain woman carrying a tray with four jugs of beer served his neighbors, before turning to Percival to welcome him and take his order. He asked for ale and a meat pie, and she quickly came back with his drink. Percival was sipping his beer and people-watching (a bad habit of his) when a heavy land landed on his shoulder. 

He immediately tensed and glared up at whoever dared to be so familiar with him only to blink in surprise at the sight of an old acquaintance: a friend and another hunter, Harry, whose yellow slitted eyes gleamed as he took the seat opposite Percival. As a hunter and a Witcher, Harry was a well-built man with sallow skin and grey-blond hair. He’d rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and anyone could see his trademark tattoo - a wyvern winding its long tail up to his right shoulder. The right wing of the drawn creature had been sliced in half by a cut that looked fairly recent. 

Like any other Witcher, Harry had started walking the Path at the age of eighteen, until he one day realized how much more profitable it would be to branch out, so to speak. Not only did he now deal with monsters, he also took up regular game hunting like Percival to gain more coin, and occasionally accepted contracts for dirty human assassinations. As a result, he had been ostracized by the majority of the Witcher community, but in his words, Harry had never asked to become a Witcher in the first place and so he couldn’t “give less of a shit what these stuck-up arseholes thought of him.” 

Percival liked him. They’d met a few years ago when they reached for a contract asking to kill a pack of wolves pinned to a noticeboard at the same time. Instead of fighting over it (for it was the only contract in this shithole of a town) they agreed to work together and split the reward. From then on, whenever their paths crossed, they hunted in unison in order to make more profit off of what they sold, and share the resulting coin. It was a good arrangement, and Harry had become a good friend. The Witcher would no doubt be _very_ interested in the unusual being Percival had been tracking down. 

The waitress came back with his dinner. He ate it slowly while he and Harry caught up with time, and then he asked him whether he fancied hunting _the_ White Wolf. 

Harry raised a bushy eyebrow and took a sip of his own glass of water (the man never drank alcohol, saying he liked to keep a clear head at all times, something Percival admired him for). “There ain’t no wolf ’round them parts,” he said slowly. “Ye know it and I know it, Percy. The hell ye talkin’ about.” 

He was right, of course. Wolves had been hunted down to the last one in this region of the continent. The survivors had fled higher up in the mountains when their hunting grounds turned to fields of crops and ever-expanding villages, full of humans. “It's not a regular wolf,” Percival explained then, and told him about what he’d heard in Pysenlaan, and his resulting bet with the merchant. Harry leaned closer - just as interested as Percival had been then. He could sense there was something worth chasing here... They were of a mind. 

“And ye tracked this… bard?” 

“Yes. Not a hard feat,” Percival said dryly. “He was here just last week, sang at the Prince’s tenth birthday. The whole town celebrated it, hanging homemade banderoles in the streets; and from what I heard he mingled with the commoners and walked down the main street -” He briefly pointed to the inn’s door to illustrate his words, “- singing to his heart’s content with half the people following and singing in tune behind him. It’s the _least_ difficult hunt I’ve ever done I swear. That man's famous.” 

“Curious,” Harry murmured. Percival smirked. 

“I know! So what do you think? Are you in?” 

“Aye, ye bet.” Harry got up and clapped his hand on Percival’s shoulder again. “Ye know, funny thing is, thes’ another Witcher’ called the _White Wolf._ Geralt o' Rivia, his name is - met him once. He didn’t like me.” He barked out a laugh. “No sir. Dared despise me fo' killin’ humans fo' coin and then he goes and _butchers_ an entire village. Fuckin’ two-face...” He spat on the floor. “Where ye stayin’?” 

“Here. My horse’s in the stable already. What about you?"

“Brothel I fink. Alright. Then I’ll see ye t’morrow? Got stuff I got to take care o'. We’ll see if this white wolf’s real.” He grinned, excited at the thought of an out of the ordinary hunt. Percival nodded. 

“Yeah. Good night Harry.” 

The vice tightened around Jaskier, and the poet was unaware. It made something happy flutter in Percival’s chest. The thrill of the chase. The anticipation of a reward. He slept soundly that night, secure in the knowledge that, very soon, he and Harry would find Jaskier to get to the bottom of this improbable story. 

If the wolf was real… With Harry at his side, they had the upper hand. The man was not just an experienced hunter, he was a _Witcher_ with lightning-fast reflexes and an inhuman strength Percival could only dream of possessing. But he himself wasn’t lacking in fighting skills either; he owned both short range and long distance weapons, and he sure knew how to use them. The wolf would have a hard time defending itself. And if there was no wolf… well. It _would_ be a disappointment, but they could choose to have a bit of fun with the bard before robbing him and then they'd be on their way to catch something else worth some real coin. Either way, he didn’t intend to come out of this a loser. 

\-------

  
  


Jaskier was warming his hands by the fire. He stared absently as the flames licked the wood and smoke danced in the air, captivated by the beauty of it. And inspired - always inspired. _And who by fire, who by water/Who in the sunshine, who in the night time/ Who shall I say is calling…?_ _Hmm. Not bad!_

Geralt had disappeared some time ago to chase their dinner. Jaskier wondered if he took longer than usual because there wasn’t anything to be found in these woods, or if Geralt had become ambitious and was trying to catch a bigger game like a deer or a wild boar... He was probably famished, wasn't he. A creature his size would need to eat a lot; Jaskier knew that what food he bought and gave him wasn’t enough. 

Camp was made, with his bedroll and blanket near the fire, and his saddlebags propped up as makeshift pillows. Jaskier had had time to take care of Pegasus, removing his tack and brushing his coat and mane. He’d also begun to grind an assortment of herbs in a bowl with his mortar in preparation for seasoning the game Geralt would bring back, and now he was lying a bit idle. He didn’t even fancy grabbing his lute to play something in order to pass the time. Night hadn’t fallen yet, but too much noise could still alert predators. 

He thought about a new idea for a poem; the words were there in his mind as legible as if he’d actually jotted them down on paper. He reworked the lines, crossing out words and making imaginary additions, always his worst critic. He was lost to the hardship of correct rhymes and stanza length when the crack of a twig pulled him out of his daydreaming. 

Jaskier quickly raised his head and looked around, but there was nothing to be seen. Their camp was set in a clearing amidst a patch of tall ferns. Between that and the tree trunks of looming oaks and beeches, it was difficult to see anything through the thick vegetation. Which meant that, while they couldn’t be seen, Jaskier just as well couldn’t see whatever or _whoever_ had just made that noise. It was probably only a rabbit or squirrel, but his heart was racing and his palms were sweating. He sensed that he ought to be on his guard, and Jaskier had learned to listen to his instincts; he drew his dagger and stayed very still, straining his ears for any other sound. 

But when nothing came after a good five minutes (and his thighs started to burn from how tense he was) he exhaled deeply and allowed himself to _relax_. They were in the middle of the forest! Of course there were weird noises - harmless little animals scuttled around, sometimes dead tree branches or nuts fell for no reason. Still, he’d be more reassured when Geralt was back and here with--

A menacing whistling sound and an arrow suddenly lodged itself in the ground right between Jaskier’s feet. He startled badly, his mouth opening on a half-strangled shout of fear. Jaskier panted for breath, his eyes skimming over the trees, his dagger held defensively in front of him. Fuck, if these were bandits he was surely outnumbered and screwed. If it was elves… he swallowed around the lump in his throat. He was too young and too pretty to die! What the hell was Geralt doing! 

Another arrow - this one went straight into the log he had been using minutes before as a seat. Pegasus neighed and reared up. “Who’s here?!" Jaskier called. "Show yourself - I mean no harm! I’m sure we can come to a, a peaceful understanding! I’m just a bard!” 

“...Aye, I know who ye are,” a low voice said. There was a rustle in the bushes in front of Jaskier - who held his breath - and out stepped a man he had never before seen in his life. 

The stranger wore an armor of greenish leather with brown straps, and a sand-colored gambeson. He held a crossbow loosely in one hand; the hilts of two swords strapped to his back glinted when he stepped closer to Jaskier, who did not loosen his grip on his meager weapon. He was trying to look confident despite the fact his hands were visibly shaking. And the man’s eyes… They were yellow and slitted like a snake’s. A _Witcher_. But… what would a Witcher want to do with him? Didn’t they usually hunt… monsters? The answer hit Jaskier like a punch to the gut and icy dread curled around his heart. _Geralt_. He was here for Geralt. 

The bard did his best not to let his panic show on his face. He was proud when he managed to speak in a strong and steady voice: “Who in Melitele’s name are you and what do you want?” 

“I’m Harry,” the man replied calmly. “We’re here about the white wolf.” 

“We?” Jaskier realized too late that Harry was staring at a point behind him. 

“Terribly _sorry_ about this,” a familiar voice said, and intense pain exploded in the back of Jaskier’s skull. He staggered, his vision blurring. Dazed and confused. His knees hit the dirt. The world faded to black. 

  
  


\--------

  
  


A dull pain flared in his cheek. Jaskier groaned as he was struck again on the other side, then someone dumped water over his head. He spluttered indignantly at the rough treatment, fully awake, and tried to raise his hands to push whoever was doing this to him away only to realize that he couldn’t move. 

He gasped and looked down as a hand pushed his wet hair away from his face. His head was pounding as if somebody took a hammer to it, and his thoughts were foggy, slipping away from him the second he tried to hold onto them. He needed to… He needed to focus. This was not good. There were ropes tightened around his waist digging uncomfortably into the meat of his stomach. His hands were tied in front of him, and the dagger he kept sheathed to his thigh had been removed. 

“Think I might have hit him too hard,” the man in front of him commented. He snapped his fingers in front of Jaskier’s face and he looked familiar. Why was he familiar? “Jaskier, bard, come on. Look at me.” 

Jaskier struggled to obey, managing to focus on the face in front of him, and a memory trickled in: heat, Geralt lying in a ruined cottage - wounded - a man on a horse. _A_ _hunter._

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, his thoughts finally clearing up a bit. “Percival _,_ what…”

“Aye. Glad to know you remember me.” 

“What…?” Jaskier swallowed, tried again. His throat was parched. “What's it mean…?” What was Percival doing _here?_ Jaskier would have believed in a mere coincidence save for the ominous fact he’d been attacked and tied to a fucking tree _._ How had Percival known where he was?... Did he _follow_ him?! Jaskier coughed. The pain in his head had abated to a dull, constant throbbing, and it made thinking hard... 

“Jaskier,” Percival said impatiently. “Are you with us? Yes? Great! Me and my friend Harry here -” He pointed at a man with swords on his back who was currently rummaging through Jaskier’s saddlebags. “Just have a couple questions!” 

Jaskier squinted at Harry. He was… pretty sure those bags were his. “Thatss’ mine,” he protested tiredly. 

“Percy! It's rubbish!” Harry stated in a disappointed voice. “There ain’t nothin’ here but notebooks, nothin' o' -- oh, now that’s more interestin’! Yes baby!” He'd found the purse with Jaskier’s savings, a large sum of gold that mostly came from what he’d recently earned in Vengerberg playing for the royal family. 

“Nooo. That's mine…!” 

Percival sighed. A vein throbbed in his temple. He twirled a familiar-looking dagger he held in his hand, and he stabbed Jaskier in the right shoulder. 

It was like getting punched. Jaskier stared at the man with lack of understanding then at the hilt of his own dagger buried deep in his own skin. “Oh... Well that’s not very nice,” he said, feeling quite off. 

“And there’s a coherent sentence,” Percival said like he was giving a lecture. “Pain helps you focus. This was just to make sure I had your attention now.” He twisted the knife just a little and Jaskier bit his lips so hard he tasted blood. He was sweating profusely, sharp pain shooting up his arm and gaining in intensity with each passing second. “You see, there are some interesting rumors that follow you, bard. Have any idea what they could be about?” 

_Protect Geralt._ Jaskier shook his head, tried to make a joke. He’d sweet-talked his way out of difficult situations before, he had. “Don’t tell me,” he said, holding onto the pain and the rising anger he felt - he'd done nothing but be kind to this man yet here he was getting stabbed?! “- did I cuckold the wrong person again? Is there a - a _bastard_ son of mine looking for his father, _desperate_ enough to reach me he’d hire a hunter to track me down?” 

“Very funny,” Percival drawled. He removed the dagger with a weird smile, and Jaskier whimpered at the pain, feeling a gush of warm blood run down his arm. “But no, Harry told you we were here for the white wolf.” 

“The fuck is _that_ s'pposed to mean?” Jaskier cried. 

“Rumor has it ye have a pet wolf,” Harry intervened. He stood up and brushed himself off, opening his hands wide as though he stood on an imaginary stage. “But it’s not a wolf is it? It’s a _huge_ beast, aye - a white pelt large enough to clothe three snobbish noblewomen.” He spat on the ground. “A trophy head to make any hunter or _King_ pale wif jealousy. A bounty so great we’d be safe for the rest o' our lives...” 

Jaskier ogled him. " _That’s_ your friend?” He told Percival, then laughed mockingly, too high-pitched. “What mushrooms is he on, or did you two perhaps hit your _head_ on the way here? Drank too much Est Est?” He rattled on, his mouth out of control. “Have you both _lost_ your _marbles?_ Such a beast…it doesn’t exist!” He said loudly. “This isn't a _fairytale!_ I know nothing about this! Let me go _,_ you have no _right!”_ He struggled against his bonds as Percival narrowed his eyes. “I’m a viscount, I could have you both hanged for less than that! Come now, this is ridiculous!” 

“Is it? Is it really, Jaskier?” asked Percival. He plucked something out of Jaskier’s doublet. “Then what is this, hmm?” He brushed his hand down Jaskier’s thigh, who shuddered in revulsion. Percival held up his findings in front of his face: a handful of white hair, and Jaskier's heart took a deep dive inside his chest. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ His mind scrambled to think of an idea to justify this and came up blank. He spent all his time petting Geralt, of course he’d be covered in fur! “That’s -- that’s…!” 

“Yeah... Thought so." There was a mean glint in Percival's eyes. “Do not try to tell me _this_ belongs to a random cat or a dog because I won’t believe you. Now - we can do this the easy way or the hard way. _Where is the wolf?”_

“There is no wolf!” Jaskier cried helplessly. 

“... Of course not. Harry, please?” 

Jaskier took several deep breaths as Percival walked away. Fuck, damn it, shit, god damn _tits!_ He was a fool. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He was trembling from head to foot from the shock of being stabbed. He prayed that Geralt was far away. Half of him wanted the wolf to come running to his aid, and the other half wanted him to flee in the exact opposite direction. He could withstand a bit of… stabbing… until the hunters got bored and understood they may have made a mistake, right? He let out a sob. Fuck. He didn't _want_ that. And not knowing where Geralt was or how he would react to this whole scene when he came back sent Jaskier spiralling into significant levels of frenzy. He started thrashing against the ropes again, and only succeeded in rubbing the skin around his wrists raw. Percival and Harry were having a hushed conversation, but at the sound of his renewed struggles they turned to him as one. Jaskier froze like a startled deer. 

“Make him talk,” was all Percival said as he handed Harry the bloody dagger, exchanging a meaningful glance with his partner-in-crime. Harry nodded; as if he was bored by what was about to unfold, Percival sat down on the log and threw a twig into the fire. 

Jaskier stared back at unnatural yellow eyes, shrinking on himself instinctively even though there was nowhere to go while Harry leaned very, very close to him. “Please,” he begged, looking anywhere but at those devilishly unnatural orbs. He could feel Harry’s breath on his face. “There’s no…” But what could he say when he’d already been caught red-handed, and Percival saw right through his lies? “If the White Wolf finds you here with me he will kill you. You have to leave for your own sake.” 

Harry cut the rope holding his hands together, and made a noncommittal noise in response. Jaskier still couldn’t move but his right arm was free, while the left was still knotted to the tree. With dread he understood the hunters had probably planned this move so Jaskier couldn’t fight back, even for a second. Harry was holding his free wrist in a vice-like grip. It hurt. “Yer a bard,” he said. He stroked the back of Jaskier’s hand with a callused finger, and Jaskier didn’t - couldn’t - reply. He felt nauseous. “Ye value those hands, right? A musician’s hand. A poet’s... We coulda destroy'd yer lute, bu’ tha’ wouldn’ be as fun _._ ” Brusquely, Harry pinned Jaskier’s hand against the bark of the tree, palm up. He stroked the dagger red with blood over the skin as if trying to determine where he should strike. There was a knot in Jaskier’s throat. His tongue felt useless in his mouth - thick and heavy. The rush of blood in his ears made him dizzy. This wasn’t happening. Not his hands. Not his _arm_. 

“No, no no no he’ll kill you I swear he will the wolf! It's a curse you see he is --” Harry plunged the dagger in the middle of his hand, piercing through skin muscle and grazing bone as easily as one would butter, pinning it to the tree like a butterfly to a board. 

Jaskier _screamed_. 

*

“So there _is_ a wolf,” Percival growled, suddenly standing next to Harry. "Speak, Jaskier!" 

Jaskier sobbed. “Yess! Oh, fuck - he’s a -- a - f- fo - forest spirit! I’m cursed, bound to him, I want out!” 

“He’s lyyying,” Harry said leisurely, and Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. “I can _smell_ it on him.” He removed the dagger to excruciating pain and this time took hold of one of Jaskier’s fingers. 

“No,” Jaskier breathed. He felt the tip of the dagger against his skin, cutting a very thin line outlining the first two knuckles. “No no NO NO NO NO --” He knew what was coming and he shook from head to toe with unbridled terror. 

“Why are you protecting it?” Percival asked. 

“Because… BECAUSE…" Harry started slowly peeling the skin off of his finger. Searing, shooting pain _exploded_ in his hand, obliterating everything else. Jaskier screamed himself hoarse until his voice broke. “It’s.. it’s… It’s… Ah, _PLEASE …_ It’s not an it!” he cried hysterically. “It’s a _man_ , a man who’s been cursed, his name is Ger - I’m just trying to _help_ him, _please- stop -”_

“Annd that’s the truth.” Harry announced. He wiped the dagger with a leaf. Jaskier's frame was wracked with shivers. He was acutely aware of the bit of skin still attached to his right hand that dangled in the periphery of his vision. It was _wrong_. Between his hand and his shoulder his entire right side was on fire. White spots danced in his vision. “A man who's the victim of a curse. What do we do? I don't care about killing men, you know me.” 

“Could he be lying again?” Percival asked, sounding far away. 

“No. Told ye, I can smell i’ on ‘im.” 

“Hmm. I want to see him first. Man or no man, you know what’s in it for us, Harry. If that wolf’s anywhere in the vicinity, he’ll have heard _him_ , _”_ he nodded towards Jaskier who’d passed out. “And won’t be long. That is if he's as loyal as our bard here. If not? Then we go after him.” 

“Sounds good to me.” 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the lyrics to Jaskier's song are from _Who by Fire_ by Leonard Cohen. I simply adore his poetry. 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know what you think in the comments! I want to thank you all for the support you've shown this story so far, it really means a lot!!! 😭🥰🥰🥰 
> 
> next chapter with 100% more Geralt ! And he's not happy...!!


	8. New blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt whirled around and hurried back the way he came. That scream had sounded very, very human and very, very familiar - it could only be Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for this chapter: blood, injury and minor character death. 
> 
> enjoy ;)

Once they’d chosen a clearing to set up camp, Geralt left Jaskier to penetrate deeper into the forest and hunt their dinner. Tonight he itched to eat something like venison, which was a bit more substantial than jerky or dried fruit. Usually he tracked down rabbits because due to their small size they were easier for Jaskier to skin and roast; but the bard’s stomach had been gurgling loudly for the last hour or so and he wouldn’t say no to some fresh meat, even more so if it was deer (considered in a few places on the Continent like a luxury when nobles reserved the right to hunt.) 

Geralt came to a halt, focusing on the information his fives senses were giving him: the forest echoed with noise -- leaves rustling in the wind, birds singing, and insects buzzing. The ground was dry, covered in fallen leaves and overgrown brambles and ferns. Sunlight filtered through the trees, highlighting the verdant shades of vegetation and painting the woods with flecks of green and gold. He closed his eyes, trying hard to drown out the superficial noises, and inhaled deeply. He started moving again slowly, his nose to the ground, and - there, a musky, stronger smell. Not a rabbit or a fox. Something else. Geralt followed the scent trail, adventuring further and further away from where he’d left Jaskier. His ears picked up another noise, the trickle of running water and a few minutes later, stomping. 

He slowed down and crouched low to the ground. He could distinguish a herd of deer in between the trees. There were perhaps 400 yards away. Geralt’s white fur did not exactly blend in with the décor; even staying downwind, he wouldn’t be able to prowl any closer to them without being seen. No, these days his hunting method relied more on the element of surprise as well as his unnatural speed. Geralt scanned the herd to pick a suitable prey, ruling out the big males with their impressive pairs of antlers. This year’s offspring was grown: the young deer strutted around and preened, proudly displaying the two bumps on their heads which would grow into equally large antlers if given the chance. The does were scattered around, chewing on a variety of leaves but staying close to the males, who raised their heads every second to look at their surroundings, ready to clear off if they saw danger. 

A deer was out of the question and a doe was a big catch, but Geralt was quite hungry, and he knew he would feel guilty if he killed one of the young. His eyes narrowed in on one of the females which had moved away from the rest of the herd. He slowly moved just a bit closer, and the doe, unaware, made a step in his direction. _Good._

But just as he prepared to pounce, a distant scream perturbed the quiet of the forest. Geralt startled, suddenly finding himself wrong-footed, and upon spotting him the herd of deer scattered immediately to the four winds. 

_Fuck_ , he thought, his heart racing in his chest. He whirled around and hurried back the way he came. That scream had sounded very, very human and very, _very_ familiar - it could only be Jaskier. But Geralt hadn’t smelled anyone else in this forest, nor any humanoid creatures. He dreaded to think of what could have caused Jaskier to scream this way, so loud and in pain. Foolishly, he hoped it was only because Jaskier had spotted a particularly big and ugly spider, but his gut feeling told him it was worse than that. _Fuck, fuck._ He shouldn’t have left, shouldn’t have gone this far, should have just chased a rabbit like usual! 

Another scream, just as terrified and hurt. Geralt snarled and ran faster, leaping over fallen trunks, weaving in and out around trees and sending clouds of leaves rising into the air with each step. As he got closer voices became discernible. Two - no, three men, including Jaskier’s familiar lilt. Displaying a considerable amount of self-control, Geralt forced himself to slow down in order to assess the situation properly. Cold fury was rising in him, curling poisonously tight around his heart, but Vesemir’s voice rang fiercely in his head: _mistakes get a Witcher killed. Always have a plan before you rush into battle, boy._

Except Jaskier was pleading, sobbing, saying, “It’s a _man_ , a man who’s been cursed, his name is Ger - I’m just trying to _help_ him, please - _stop -”_ and the world disappeared under a veil of white noise around Geralt. He could hear nothing past the rush of blood in his ears, the loud thumping of his heart. Jaskier was hurt. Badly enough that he could smell blood. The wolf bared his teeth. From where he was, his enhanced sight and hearing enabled him to get glimpses of the scene taking place in the clearing: Jaskier was visible thanks to his brightly colored doublet and had his back against a tree. Even from afar it was clear that he’d been restrained. There were two other men talking between themselves. 

“A man who's the victim of a curse. What do we do? I don't care about killing men, ye know me,” one of them said in a thick Northern accent. 

“Could he be lying again?”

“No. Told ye, I can smell i’ on ‘im.”

“Hmm. I want to see him first. Man or no man, you know what’s in it for us, Harry. If that wolf’s anywhere in the vicinity, he’ll have heard him and won’t be long. That is if he's as loyal as our bard here. If not? Then we go after him.” 

“Sounds good to me.” 

The two men got moving, not paying any more attention to Jaskier, whose head lolled against his chest. He looked unconscious. Geralt dug his claws deep in the dirt. Whatever it was these men had _done_ to him, they would pay the price, he’d make sure of it. Jaskier was the closest thing to a companion - dare he say a friend, even a _best_ friend - that Geralt had ever had, and they hurt him. He felt nothing but white-hot anger, and it was good: anger prevented him from feeling fear and he latched onto the ugly emotion with abandon. _Anger_ propelled him into action. 

Geralt didn’t care about the _whys_ and the _hows_ now. These men were here for a wolf, were they? Well they would damn well get one. Whether or not they lived to tell the tale was another story. 

Jaskier was losing blood: the coppery scent of it wafted over to Geralt with a change of wind. He also smelled sweat, piss and the lingering sourness of fear, and his decision was made: with little foreplanning (Vesemir would have his head) Geralt attacked. He dashed towards the clearing and landed at the edge of it, letting out a thunderous, rumbling, hideous _gnarl_ straight out of a nightmare. His fur stood on end, doubling his already frighteningly imposing size. His claws were extended, long and sharp. He showed all his teeth, two rows of dagger-like monstrosities, and growled at the two strangers. The men were kneeling on the ground with their crossbows aimed straight at Geralt’s face. He could see Jaskier in the periphery of his vision to the right, tied to a tree and out of it. His pretty doublet blooming red at the right shoulder. Geralt growled again and stared down at his opponents. He towered over them, saliva dripping from his open mouth to the ground. 

The hand of the man on the left was shaking minutely. 

He stared in mute awe at Geralt, but the man on the right was unphased. His hold on his weapon was steady, controlled, and the shot would aim true. Golden eyes met their match. Geralt knew him -- another Witcher from the school of the Cat. He couldn’t remember his name but he did remember his face. But Geralt had undergone extra trials and additional sets of mutations no other witcher from any other school had ever been subjected to. He was no match for him, but he’d still be a pain to fight. And as for the human… 

“He’s - he’s real…?!” Percival breathed out. “By the gods, Harry, _look_ at it!” 

“Aye, I’m lookin’,” the witcher said, his eyes never once leaving the wolf’s. In under a minute he had thrown his crossbow to the side, grabbed, uncorked and swallowed a vial of potion from his belt (Geralt could smell it was Swallow) and unsheathed his steel sword, wielding it around a few times before adopting a fighting stance. His eyes had turned completely black, dark veins prominent on his cheeks, neck, hands and forearms. Harry sneered. “Come on puppy, let’s see what you got.” 

He sprung forward and the wolf met him halfway with a snarl. Harry threw something onto the ground: there was an explosion and a cloud of white gaz rose up like smoke into the air. The wolf howled. 

Percival ran to the edge of the clearing, crossbow in hand, whirled around and knelt again. He trained his longshot weapon on the tornado of movement and dust that Harry and the animal had become, soon realizing they moved way too fast for him to follow. He could only watch with baited breath as the fight unfolded, paying close attention to Harry and hoping he gained the upper hand. 

\---

The alchemical bomb had been a _bastard_ move. 

Geralt was furious. His eyes were red, irritated and teary, and his vision blurred. He recovered just in time to dodge the heavy blow of the witcher’s sword which hit the ground with a _clang_. Harry moved again, aiming right for Geralt’s throat: he wasn’t here to play around. But he missed and had to roll to avoid the swipe of Geralt’s claws in retaliation. Geralt leapt at him, pinning the man to the ground with all his weight, and snapped his teeth in front of his face. Harry held his sword up like a shield and cursed. “Aaaah, fuck!” The wolf’s claws pierced through his armor and dug into the skin of his upper arms and shoulders. He tried to push the animal off of him to no avail, a burning pain spreading in his arms. “PERCIVAL!” He yelled. “A LITTLE HELP HERE?!” 

Geralt heard the whizz of an arrow and ducked instantly without stepping off the witcher’s chest. Harry was struggling for breath. He barked at the other hunter in warning. Percival loaded a new arrow onto his crossbow and shot again. Geralt yelped at he felt the sharp head of the arrow sink in his side. He twisted his body, snapping at it instinctively, driven wild by the pain, the scent of blood and the pungent smell of fear and adrenaline in the air. The witcher rolled away from him and got up again, holding onto his sword with shaking hands. There were deep gashes in his arms, bleeding profusely. But he grinned like a wild thing at Geralt, goading him into another attack. Another arrow was fired and Geralt jumped to dodge it, slowly retreating as he tried to figure out his next steps. Percival had joined Harry and the two men faced him with hardened expressions. 

To Geralt the one with the arrows was like a fucking _annoying_ horsefly. His blood was pumping and he couldn’t even feel his wound but if he were to be hit once more in vital places he’d be as good as dead. He snarled again. The witcher was injured, which was _good_. He’d represented the most important threat. But these men had clearly shown they were here to kill him. Geralt had to respond accordingly.

“You alright?” Percival said quietly, stepping closer to Harry. 

“Never been better,” replied Harry, his chest heaving. He spat on the floor, glaring daggers at the wolf, the air crackling with tension. “You?” 

“Fine. Got anymore of those bombs?” 

“Just one,” Harry said sourly. “Work’s been rare lately, didn’t have no money to replenish. Arrows?” 

Geralt slowly started circling them, almost teasing. 

“Two left.” 

“Hmm, there’s more in my pack but I doubt you’d make it. Watch this...” Harry joined his fingers in a Sign and pressed one hand against the ground. A circle of purple light formed around the wolf who promptly jumped out of reach of the magic with a yelp and continued to circle them, going faster. “...Ach, fuck, that didn’t work. Should have restrained him.” 

“Use the fire sign?” Percival suggested. “I can’t hit him like this, he keeps moving...” The wolf let out a low, ominous growl. 

“He’s gonna attack again,” the witcher barked. “Draw your fuckin’ sword!” Percival obeyed immediately. They stood back to back, swords up, waiting for the wolf to cease his game. The creature charged and Harry cast a Quen shield around both men. The wolf stopped short in front of the golden dome, snarling in something like frustration and anger. 

This close, Harry and Percival could properly appreciate the beauty of him. The wolf held his head high: he was the same height as them, his thick fur white with silvery patches around his eyes, two golden orbs burning with rage. He stole Percival’s breath away. Harry was straining to keep the shield up. 

“... Gods, what a beast… Think we can win?” 

Harry grunted. “He’s impressive but I’ve fought bigger. Told ye about that one sonofabitch of a Katakan…”

“Not what I asked, Harry.” 

“There’s two of us and one of him so we’ll damn well try, and if he kills us then he kills us. I shall have died like a proper witcher!” He grinned madly. “Let’s go!” 

Harry dropped the shield and both men yelled as they swung their swords. Harry took the right and Percival the left, the witcher aiming for the wolf's head and the hunter for the knee joint of his foreleg. But the animal barrelled right between them before they struck, his sheer width sending both men staggering backwards unbalanced. The wolf turned around and pounced on Percival, closing his mouth around the man’s shoulder. The sickening crack of broken bones echoed in the clearing. Percival _screamed,_ his sword clattering to the ground as the wolf started to shake him like a ragdoll. He fumbled desperately for another weapon at his belt with the left hand, his vision narrowing. Blindly, Percival hit the wolf’s head behind his shoulder. He felt the dagger meet its mark and gasped, distantly aware that the wolf howled in pain and released him. Percival fell to the ground on his belly with a miserable moan and with his one good arm tried to crawl away from the predator at his back. 

Harry was seething, his face gone even paler than usual. The wolf was stumbling, shaking his head and ineffectively pawing at his face where the dagger was buried, letting out a series of hurt, confused whimpers. 

Percival lied on the ground on his back a few feet away. His eyes were glazed over, his breathing shallow, and he pressed a hand red with blood against his wounded shoulder.

“You fuckin’ bastard!” Harry thundered as he advanced on the wolf wielding his sword. “You - fucking - _bastard.”_ Each heinous word was punctuated by a strong swing of his sword. He cut the wolf’s shoulder, jumped to the side and slashed at his hind leg then his flank. The wolf _roared_ and hit him in the stomach so hard he went flying and crashing into a tree, the back of his head slamming against the hard trunk. Harry slumped to the ground, momentarily disoriented, stars dancing in his vision. Fuck, fuck - his hands fumbled at his belt for a vial of healing potion but he came up empty. He blinked and looked around him, spotting the vial amongst the leaves a bit further away, unbroken and unopened. He had lost his sword, could see the steel gleaming in the last rays of sunlight. The silver sword was still strapped to his back but he couldn’t lift his arms. 

The wolf prowled towards him, letting out a low snarl. Harry tried to stand upright again, hands reaching behind him to support himself on the tree trunk, his head swimming from the blow. This was not good, not good at all. He took a step forward only to fall on all fours. The wolf noticed his staring and growled softly, swatting the potion vial out of reach. 

He was bleeding from multiple wounds, his white fur tainted with dark red, yet he stood up tall and strong as though they were nothing… While Percival’s arm had been crushed to dust by the wolf’s powerful bite. Harry himself had a head wound and deep gashes in his arms and, off to the side, he could see the goddamn bard -- still unconscious and tied to the tree. The odds were not staking up in their favor. For the first time, the witcher started to feel like they had made a big mistake in coming here. He stared at the wolf and the wolf stared back, lying in wait, both of them having the same realization. 

This could be the end.

Harry could give all this up as a lost cause, collect his pride and his wounded friend and head back to town in defeat. They wouldn’t get the money they were hoping for and they’d keep struggling, but… Sometimes, there were other well-paid contracts out there in the Four Kingdoms. He eyed the wolf again, thinking a bit more clearly now that the initial shock of the blow had passed, and suddenly he saw things he hadn’t before... Harry hesitated… Yes, the wolf was still standing, but he was panting for breath, shivering bodily if he moved his head just a little. He was also clearly favoring his left side. _Weakened_. 

He could attack again, couldn’t he…? Just so they wouldn’t have done all of this for _nothing_. He still had one bomb left, and a few daggers on his person... It only took one well-aimed blow at the wolf’s skull or his throat to... Harry swallowed and the wolf whined, something like resignation flashing in his yellow eyes when the witcher locked his jaw. 

Harry stood up with a new surge of energy. He felt lighter, better, his accelerated healing having slowed the bleeding down to a trickle and chasing the fog in his head. He drew the dagger strapped to his thigh and held tightly onto the vial containing the alchemical bomb. Behind Harry, the injured bard let out a pathetic whimper, and the wolf’s eyes went dark. 

The witcher swallowed again, his throat dry. This was his last chance -- break it or make it. “Come on, puppy,” he croaked. “Come here...” 

The wolf leapt at him. 

Harry threw the bomb down and moved out of the way. He felt an intense, searing pain in his leg and cried out, losing his balance. He swung his arm, the sharp dagger sinking into soft flesh like butter. He removed it and stabbed the wolf again while he was dragged on the forest ground by his leg. He couldn’t get a good opening or a good shot, and he was panicking. He struck twice more, once dangerously close to the wolf’s eyes, before the latter finally let him go. Harry’s leg was _burning_ , wildfire licking up the skin and sending alarm signals to his brain. He was sweating buckets, panting for breath, coughing in fits. 

The wolf whined again and Harry tried to focus on him. He was very close. His jaw was slick with blood, the red liquid mingling with his saliva as he opened his mouth wide. 

And Harry knew he was going to die. 

\---

Geralt closed his mouth over the man’s neck, squeezing his eyes shut against the raging pain on the right side of his face where he'd been stabbed. His fangs bit into the jugular and warm blood gushed down his throat. He swallowed it and let go of the witcher whose eyes had rolled back in his head, his body twitching as he gurgled and choked on his own blood. 

The wolf growled one last time and collapsed to the ground. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi folks ! hope you enjoyed the fight! i was editing this chapter, which is originally twice as lenghty, and thought this was actually a good place to end it... and also that i _really_ needed to update. XD the second part of this chapter just needs editing and will be out shortly, definitely before the end of the week! im sorry for the wait! 
> 
> thank you very much for reading !! <33


	9. Butcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We should have won and skinned your wolf and sold his hide. We _would_ have won if not for the fact your murder puppy also happens to be a witcher in disguise,” he said, ignoring the wolf’s threatening snarl.

For an instant, the world was calm. 

Wind rustled the leaves in the tree as the setting sun followed its course, painting the sky in warm shades of purple, pink and gold. The weather got colder. 

Geralt stirred, opening his eyes and taking in the scene around him with tiredness. He tried to stand up, and managed it the third time -- whimpering at the terrible pain in his skull. Every little movement hurt. He had beaten the hunters, but fighting together the two men had done a number on him. Had Geralt not been a witcher he would have died here today. 

He slowly limped over to Jaskier to scent him. The bard was still unconscious, which meant Geralt couldn’t have been out of it that long. He whined, pressing his wet nose to Jaskier’s neck and licking his face to try and wake him. Jaskier was still tied up and Geralt wanted nothing more than to cut these ropes, but he needed his friend to be awake for that.

He heard the last hunter struggle to sit up, groaning and cursing up a storm under his breath. Geralt stepped in front of Jaskier protectively, but Percival wasn’t paying any attention to them: he had taken off his shoulder pad, and was busy examining his wound through holes in the fabric of his gambeson. His wounded arm hung limply at his side, completely useless. Given what Geralt had seen earlier, his right arm was his sword arm, and he'd almost feel bad for the man if it were not for his actions. Focused on his injury, Percival barely reacted when the wolf padded closer to him. He turned his head to look at Geralt and huffed with a self-deprecating smile. “Well you look just as bad as I do.” 

Geralt growled softly in reply. He didn’t know what to do. Percival looked around them and his eyes fell on Harry’s corpse. He paled, and looked away quickly, his stomach churning. “Fuck,” he croaked. “He - _you_ \-- shit, Harry… He’s… Gods, this is my fault...” 

Geralt couldn’t argue with that. He gave a low rumble.

“What a mess. He was my friend,” he said quietly. 

Geralt wished he hadn’t had to kill the other witcher too. 

“...You ate my arm, you monster," Percival continued. His eyes shone with tears. “I can’t even feel it…” The man stood up, his left hand pressed tightly against his right shoulder. Geralt stepped back a safe distance away. It didn't look like the hunter would attack again, but he was in pain and upset and there was no telling what he might do. Geralt didn’t have the courage to fight if Percival had one more trick up his sleeve. But the man just started rummaging through one of the bags to look for medical supplies. Geralt still kept an eye on him, but he left him to his obvious distress and went back to Jaskier. 

They needed to get the hell out of here. In the melee, Geralt had also completely forgotten about Pegasus: Jaskier’s horse stood back, tugging on the rope holding him to a tree with all his strength. It looked frayed and ready to snap at any moment. His coat glistened with sweat and his eyes were panicked. Geralt vaguely recalled hearing loud neighing during the fight -- the poor gelding had been scared out of his mind. It’d take a bit of time to calm him down…

Gods, Geralt was tired… 

He desperately wished he was human. This was a dire situation and here he was, stuck with four fucking paws and cursed with the inability to _communicate_. Geralt _hated_ curses and sorcerers and _magic_. 

Except -- hmm. Perhaps Percival could prove to be useful? Jaskier needed help. 

Said man had apparently found a bottle of alcohol (the strong smell of spirits wafted over to Geralt) and a pair of scissors. He was snipping at his gambeson clumsily with it, trying to cut the fabric away. Geralt growled menacingly -- he needed the man to take care of Jaskier first, because in this form there was nothing he himself could do, much to his frustration. He trotted over to Percival and towered over him with a snarl. The hunter dropped his scissors and gulped audibly, raising his own good arm in surrender and even baring his neck. Geralt barked at the display, but it did serve to placate him a little. The wolf lifted a paw, pointing at the medical supplies scattered at Percival’s feet and then at Jaskier. 

For all his faults, it seemed Percival wasn’t an idiot: he looked at Jaskier and then back at Geralt with uncertainty. “... What? You want me to help him… ?” Geralt nodded, startling the man. Percival sighed. “... Fuck, alright.” He grabbed the bottle of spirits and a roll of bandages, which was about all he could carry. He followed Geralt to Jaskier’s side with the wolf snapping at his heels as if to say _no funny business or you’re dead._

Percival understood the meaning of his behavior perfectly. They had had to bypass the body of Harry, drenched in his own blood with flies already swarming around the dead man’s head. He didn’t want to meet the same fate; he had gotten the thrills he came here for, and then some. 

Under the scrutiny of the wolf, he cut the ropes holding Jaskier upright and tried to catch him awkwardly as he fell forward, wincing at the man’s weight. He laid him down on the forest ground, the wolf watching him all the while like a mother bear protecting her cub. Percival took Jaskier’s injured hand and poured a bit of the bottle of alcohol over the raw skin to disinfect it, then took the flap of skin and covered the injury again with it... An open invitation to infection, but right now there wasn’t much he could do about that with his limited resources. His shoulder burned each time he moved wrong, which was _always_ , and he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood to be able to keep working. Perhaps he’d change his mind later but he felt it was best to keep living one-harmed than to end up like… He glanced at Harry, his chest painfully tight. 

Percival tried to cover the finger with a bandage the best he could. “I need the scissors,” he said to the wolf, who hesitated. “Oh _come on!_ I’m not going to kill him now _,_ gods. I’ve zero weapons and I’m not suicidal, I just want to _leave.”_

Geralt didn’t like this, but Jaskier’s shoulder needed bandaging too, and the human couldn’t cut the roll of bandage with his teeth. He hurried to the spot Percival was sitting at before, took the scissors between his teeth and came back. Percival managed to cut the bandage and make a knot, more or less holding it in place. He peered at the deep stab wound in Jaskier’s shoulder -- the bard needed to be undressed, then get the wound cleaned and stitched up and covered up, but that was asking too much from him. He couldn’t work miracles, not in his state. He said so to the wolf who growled softly but seemed to accept his limits. 

Percival instead held the opened bottle of spirits under Jaskier’s nose, hoping the strong smell would wake him. After a long minute his patient coughed and his blue eyes fluttered open. The wolf immediately reacted, barking and wagging his tail as he shoved Percival out of way, sending him sprawling on his arse in the dirt. He cried out in pain. 

Jaskier’s eyes were hazy. Percival watched as he slowly became aware of his surroundings, his left hand rising up to pet the wolf’s face. “Geralt…?” The wolf whined and closed his eyes, and Jaskier sat up abruptly in alarm, the memories flashing through his mind. “Geralt, you’re hurt! What -- ooow, _mother-fucker! What the hell?”_ He bared his teeth, staring at his right hand with the bandage and then twisting his head to look down at his shoulder. Jaskier then took in Geralt’s mangled and bloodied appearance with eyes wide open in horror, gasping at the dagger hilt protruding from the wolf’s cheek. “Shit! Sweet Mother, Father and Elder - Geralt!” His hands hovered in front of the wolf’s face, wanting to do something but terrified to make it worse. “Oh gods… Geralt, are you aware that you have a fucking dagger in your face, what do I do?!” 

Percival snorted, still sitting in the dirt, and Jaskier jumped at the sound. He stared at the hunter in shock, a hand still buried in Geralt’s fur. Fear flashed in his eyes, and Percival held up his good hand in surrender again. “I’m leaving,” he said. “Your rabid dog chewed my arm and I need a healer.”

“What - where…” The bard’s eyes fell on the dead body. “Oh…! What… Gods, what happened here?” 

“Hmm. Wolf ran to your rescue as planned,” Percival said dryly. “Shit happened, that’s what -- we lost the wager and I lost my friend, money, and possibly the use of one _entire_ arm. So fuck you _,_ bard _.”_ He spat on the ground, Jaskier staring in dismay and confusion at him. “I’m done here.” 

“Your... But. _Harry_. Harry was a witcher…?” 

“He was. We _should_ have won and skinned your wolf and sold his hide. We would have won if not for the fact your murder puppy also happens to be a witcher in disguise,” he said, ignoring the wolf’s sudden threatening snarl. 

“What?” 

“You called him Geralt -- I know few white wolves with that name no matter the form they take,” he muttered. “Harry told me about him.” 

“About whom?” 

“He _told_ me he knew a witcher with the moniker the ‘White Wolf’, called Geralt of Rivia."Jaskier’s breath hitched. “And here you are, accompanied by a white wolf called Geralt _-_ a bit too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?” He paused. “I mean unless you just chose to name him Geralt like you could have named him Robert or Erik, fuck if I care. But you did say he was cursed..” 

Jaskier looked utterly bewildered in the face of this new information, while the wolf had gone completely still and silent. The hunter was right: Agnes had said his full name was _Geralt of Rivia._ She’d said it rung a bell… And Jaskier remembered. He'd heard tales of Geralt of Rivia, the infamous witcher known as the White Wolf and the Butcher of Blaviken... Jaskier knew the tragic story, the one about a witcher with white hair going mad and slaughtering an entire town. Rumor had it he'd spared no one, not even the children. The Butcher was _Geralt?_

No, it couldn’t be right. As a bard Jaskier knew that stories, even if they were based on truth, were embellished and exaggerated for dramatic purposes. Almost everyone knew of the Butcher of Blaviken, but what part of his story was real? 

Jaskier knew Geralt was not a monster. He was not cruel, unlike the hunter standing in front of him, who had apparently tracked him down for _weeks_ and took pleasure in torturing him all for money. His Geralt let Jaskier use him as a pillow when he was tired. He wagged his tail when Jaskier pet him, sometimes even howled with him when Jaskier sang, and shook his head at Jaskier’s bad jokes. Geralt hunted food for him, trying to provide in his own way, and Geralt had just _killed_ a man - a fellow witcher, nonetheless! - to protect him. Geralt of Rivia was not a monster, he was his friend. 

The wolf wouldn’t look at him, no doubt afraid that Jaskier would run for the hills now that he knew who he truly was. _The Butcher._ And perhaps, perhaps Jaskier should have been afraid seeing how strong Geralt was, how he had held his own against two skilled hunters and swordsmen, how he was still standing despite being bloody from head to toe. But Jaskier didn’t feel afraid, he felt safe. Geralt had run to his rescue and fought for him, so how could he possibly be scared when Geralt had proven he cared enough about Jaskier to put his own _life_ in danger? When he could have just left him here, in the clearing, with the hunters, deciding he was nice but he wasn’t worth the trouble, and gone on his merry way to find a cure? But he hadn’t. They had formed a bond during those long weeks of travel and the hardships they encountered, and Jaskier would never run away from Geralt. 

“I don’t care,” he said firmly, grabbing Geralt’s big fluffy head between his hands to gaze at golden eyes. “You hear me? You’re my friend, Geralt, and I know you’re a good man. You’re loyal and caring and steadfast and - and so much more! I don’t know what is true about those nasty Butcher rumors -- and I suppose you could tell me the real story if you want to, once you’re human again -- but from what _I_ have seen you’re a good person, Geralt. I’m not afraid of you.”

“Aaaaw.” Percival’s voice dripped with sarcasm. He clapped slowly. “Very, very touching, you should make this into a song - the wolf and the bard! You’re a fool, Jaskier. Witchers work alone. This monster will leave you as soon as he's cured, you're just a means to an end." 

“Perhaps I’m a fool, but no more so than you! Tell me, if _witchers work alone,_ then why is there a dead body in this clearing? Geralt is my friend. _You_ just lost yours.” He sneered. Percival reeled back as if he had been sucker-punched. His lips pressed into a thin line, he turned on his heels without saying another word. Jaskier saw him visibly struggle not to cry as he gathered up what little belongings he could carry and left. 

And when he was finally out of sight, Jaskier’s shoulders slumped. “Fuck…” He rested his head against Geralt’s shoulder with a deep sigh. The wolf had looked stunned at Jaskier’s earlier vehement declaration of trust, and in his profoundly expressive eyes Jaskier had then seen relief and joy. 

He wanted nothing more than to lay here and rest, simply enjoying Geralt’s comforting presence. But the sun was low over the horizon; he was cold and hurting and they both needed care. The campfire had long since died. They had to move. 

Jaskier’s saddlebags were still open: he set about tidying his own things in silence, taking back the coin purse Harry had stolen from him. “Come here,” he murmured to Geralt. The bard examined his facial wound more closely and grimaced in sympathy. “This is so out of my area of expertise. I’m really afraid that if I try to take it out I’ll do more damage, I’m so sorry Geralt. I feel like this is all my fault - I couldn’t have known he’d literally stalk me, but…I should have been more careful. This was terrifying on so many levels.” The wolf whimpered and nosed his hand. Jaskier smiled. “Okay, I’ll try to clean your wounds with the water we have left, but we should get going immediately, we can’t stay here. The… the body will attract scavengers and perhaps monsters - one last effort, Geralt, I’m so sorry - do you think you can walk?” In response Geralt plopped down and laid his head on his front paws. “I see. Try to rest a bit then, I’ll wake you up in an hour.” Geralt wooed softly in agreement and closed his eyes. 

Jaskier started working in silence. He took the two waterskins and examined Geralt’s body in the dying sunlight. The man-wolf had a series of lacerations and stab wounds all over; Jaskier poured water over them, trying to clean them the best he could. There was nothing to cover the injuries with, but -- hopefully, if Geralt was a witcher, then he was less prone to infection. As for his own stab wound the blood flow had stopped and it was more or less covered by his doublet - it could wait. 

The dagger buried in Geralt’s cheek worried Jaskier the most. There was also the arrow in his side -- it was broken, but the blunt head was still stuck in Geralt’s skin… 

Jaskier teared up and he started crying. He dropped the empty waterskin and knelt next to Geralt, wrapping his arms around the wolf’s neck and burying his face in his fur, uncaring about the blood. His shoulders were heaving, his body wracked with sobs as he gripped handfuls of fur in an attempt to ground himself. 

He cried until his head ached. Exhaustion weighting on him, Jaskier wiped his eyes and nose with his sleeve and gently shook Geralt awake. While the wolf emerged he went to the other side of the clearing to deal with Pegasus - his poor horse snorting and rearing up when Jaskier came near. He soothed him with a gentle voice, holding out his hand so Pegasus could scent him. “Easy, easy…” He murmured. “It’s alright big boy, it’s alright, easy, it’s over…” 

It took a good fifteen minutes for Pegasus to calm down enough for Jaskier to ready him again. He threw the blanket on the horse’s back as he kept talking to the gelding in a low voice. The saddle was heavy but he could manage it one-handed, followed by the saddlebags. Thank the gods, his sexy lute had suffered no harm. Jaskier slung it over his shoulder and looked at the ruined camp one last time. Geralt was waiting for him, his eyes shining bright in the moonlight. 

Jaskier left and the wolf dutifully followed like his shadow. 

\----

And for once, Melitele was on their side. He and Geralt walked for perhaps two hours (Jaskier struggling to see where his feet landed even though it was a clear night) before Geralt suddenly perked up. He whined and took the lead. After a short moment, Jaskier started hearing human voices too. A bit further still and he saw moving lights in the distance. 

The camp was made of five tents set up in another large clearing. There were people outside, laughing and sharing food around campfires. They wore no armor (there was no metallic glint when they moved) and didn’t look like soldiers or any other potential threat. There also was a woman among them, judging by the high-pitched voice. Perhaps travelling merchants? 

“Stay here,” Jaskier said to Geralt. “I’ll do recon.” 

He went down the slope to the clearing, trying not to trip over brambles, and walked into the camp. Conversation quieted down when the group of merrymen noticed his arrival. The smell of roasted meat lingered in the air and Jaskier blushed as his stomach gurgled loudly. Half of the men held mugs in their hands, probably filled with wine or mead. 

Jaskier cleared his throat. “Well met, good people. My name is Jaskier, the travelling bard, and I was attacked by bandits. Is there a healer nearby? How far is the closest town?” 

“It’s Dyhne, but you needn’t go that far,” one of the men said pleasantly. 

“Aye aye,” said another, nodding his head. “There’s Chireadan here -- last tent on the left. Love your songs!” He added cheerfully, and a third man cuffed him on the head. 

Well, Jaskier really hadn’t expected to be so lucky! He thanked them for the help (and the compliment!) and went to the last tent, entering it curiously. There was a dark wooden chest on the floor to his left, a bedroll on the far right corner and two tables. One was empty, and the other was filled with scrolls, glass bottles and two thick burning candles. A man sat there on a stool, reading a leatherbound book, and he looked up as Jaskier entered, putting down his glasses with a warm smile. 

“Well met, stranger,” the elf said. “How can I help you?” 

If the healer was an elf, Jaskier supposed it made things easier. An inhuman being wouldn’t balk at the sight of a wolf like Geralt nor at the idea of helping a witcher.

“I have coin,” he began. “I was attacked and wounded earlier this evening and my friend fares no better. I had to leave him at the edge of the clearing because he couldn’t walk anymore - he needs immediate care, I can wait.” 

Chireadan nodded, stood up and started putting vials and other medical supplies in a bag. “Tell me what happened?” 

“We were attacked by two hunters - they tied me to a tree, stabbed me in the shoulder and… and skinned one of my fingers so I’d tell them where my companion was." He held up his roughly bandaged hand. "Apparently there’s a bounty on his head.” Close enough, anyway. The corners of Jaskier’s lips twitched. “Then I passed out, and when I woke up one of the men was dead, the other seriously wounded, and my friend was in a poor state.” Jaskier led the healer outside, the both of them carrying oil lamps to see the way. 

“Nature of the injuries? Any weapons involved?” 

Jaskier grimaced and nodded. “Stab wounds, sword lacerations - he’s got an arrow stuck in his side, and a dagger buried in his face.” 

Chireadan raised his eyebrows. “And he’s still alive?” 

“He’s a tough one,” said Jaskier, who found this whole conversation really funny for some reason. He supposed the shock and exhaustion were catching up to him - he was this close to giggling, felt a tiny wee bit hysterical. 

“Anything else I should know?” The elf enquired as they neared the spot where Geralt was waiting for Jaskier’s return. 

“Well _yeah_ , actually, I almost forgot! My friend is a witcher who’s been cursed and who is trapped in the body of a wolf. Behold!”

And there was Geralt. The healer sucked in a breath at the sight, and Jaskier’s weird smile quickly melted when he realized Geralt was lying on the ground with his eyes closed, dead to the world. 

“Oh dear _,”_ said Chireadan quietly, with feeling. 

\------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed wolf!Geralt because unless something changes, next chapter he will be back to his normal (still growly) man-shaped witcher self! :D thank you for reading! tell me what you think !!


	10. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt whimpered in his sleep, limbs twitching, clearly in a world of hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good god. I am so sorry it took me so long to update. I hit a huge writer's block writing chapter 10, and decided to let it rest for a while. But then work started again, and then I moved out, and then _uni_ started again, and THEN there was a second lockdown, and sjdjhfjhdsfdsf. Time got away from me. 
> 
> I only very recently found the drive to go back to fic writing (happy new year, by the way!), which felt really good. This fic is not abandoned. You can thank the person with the pseudonym 'Me' who commented on the last chapter two days ago, and basically kicked my ass into opening google docs and picking up the story XD  
> I want to thank you all for the number of subscribers (which is insane, I had no idea), the kudos and all the lovely comments again. This, I know, is a very short update, but I felt I needed urgently to let you know I'm alive, while I work on the next chapter. I hope to upload within the next two weeks. 
> 
> Thank you for reading !

Chireadan pulled himself together. He immediately started examining the wolf, checking his pulse, his eyes, and taking in the overall state of him. They had to carry him back to the healer’s tent in order for him to work properly; he sent Jaskier hurrying back to camp to find a man named Phillip, who would help in hauling a wooden cart up here, which they'd use as a stretcher for Geralt. He promised Jaskier that Phillip was a good man, that he wouldn’t care for the wolf beyond an initial awed reaction. Despite his reluctance and fear (the memory of Percival’s assault still strong in his mind), Jaskier did as he was told. There was no other choice. 

Camp had fallen quiet, the merriment from before giving place to echoes of snores and hushed voices. He found Phillip in one of the tents, getting ready for bed. Jaskier was struck by the sheer size of him: he was by no means a small man himself, but Phillip _towered_ over him by a good head. Given how big Geralt himself was, he understood now why Chireadan had insisted in getting Philip's help. He had a very strong build, all broad shoulders and bulging muscles and fat belly. At first glance he looked very intimidating, like one of those bloodthirsty warriors from Skellige, but his smile was kind. He lisped when he spoke. Jaskier briefed him on the situation and thanked him in advance for his discretion. Together they chose one of the larger carts, to which Philip tied a horse, and they started pulling it up the slope. 

More accurately, Philip and the horse did the pulling part, while Jaskier walked in front of them to show the way while he babbled nervously. 

He was useless with his wounded shoulder, so Chireadan and Philip, after a bit of struggle, managed to lift the wolf up and place him in the cart. Geralt unconsciously curled in a tight ball, his long tail dragging on the ground behind them as they jostled and maneuvered the cart to go back the way they came. All three of them (five, if you counted the horses) slowly made their way back down to Chireadan’s tent.

Once there, they had to move some of the furniture outside to make room for Geralt. Jaskier lit candles, while Philip retrieved two thick, large blankets from one of Chireadan’s trunks and laid them down on the ground. They moved Geralt again from the cart to the new makeshift bed. Once everything was settled, Jaskier immediately knelt next to the wolf, petting his head and murmuring soothingly to him. 

Philip left to take the cart back where it had been parked. He also offered to take care of Pegasus, to which Jaskier readily agreed - he didn’t want to leave Geralt’s side until he was _sure_ his friend was okay. Pegasus snorted and followed Philip placidly when the man led him away by the reins to the spot where all the other horses were resting. 

Silence fell.

Jaskier watched as Chireadan started to work, shaving the fur around one of Geralt’s major wounds with expert strokes of his blade. Prior to this, he'd pried Geralt’s jaw open to pour a strong dose of painkilling potion down his throat. As a result, Geralt was completely out of it, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Chireadan washed that first injury, sutured it, and applied a smelly healing salve on top of the wound, followed by thick squares of gauze held in place with a bandage wrapped tightly around Geralt’s leg. He washed his hands in a basin of water, wiped his brow, and warned Jaskier that _this_ was going to take a long time: he ought to try to rest since he was so clearly dead on his feet. Jaskier shook his head stubbornly at the mere suggestion. 

Philip came back (carrying with him Jaskier’s bags, which he set down on the ground.) Chireadan instructed him to hold Geralt’s head up firmly so he could finally deal with the dagger in his cheek. Very, very carefully, he managed to tug it out. The operation was trying. Geralt whimpered in his sleep, limbs twitching, clearly in a world of hurt. Jaskier teared up at the sound, feeling utterly helpless. He could only stroke Geralt’s side, and whisper gentle words of affection to him to ease his pain. 

\--

Bandages, stitches, and more bandages... It was all starting to blur. Jaskier lost track of time. He was struggling to stay awake, nodding off to the sound of Chireadan’s soft spoken instructions and scraping as Philip helped move the body of the wolf around. The arrow was the other tricky part : Chireadan had to open the wound more with a surgical tool to get the head out. The healer rinsed his hands frequently with water, but it looked as if the veil of red over them would become permanent.

“Alright, I’m done,” Chireadan finally murmured, the words slowly reaching Jaskier as though he was underwater. “Thank you very much, Philip, great job. Try to get some sleep now.” 

Philip nodded and got up, his knees cracking. “Aye. Good night, sirs.” He walked out of the tent. 

"Good night.” 

“Will Geralt...” Jaskier cleared his throat. “Is he going to be okay...?” 

“He’ll be fine.” The elf was wiping his hands with a clean cloth. “He needs a lot of rest and care now. Hydration, filling meals, and regular redressing of wounds, of course, but he’ll make a full recovery. He seems strong. Now can I please, for the love of Melitele, tend to your injuries?” 

The tension Jaskier had been carrying melted, leaving him suddenly wrung out and ready to nap for the next three decades at least. He nodded his assent, too tired to speak. Chireadan examined his hand, undoing the bloody bandage. His flayed finger required very thin, neat stitches, and Chireadan gave him another vial of potion against the pain before getting to work. It was almost funny to see how focused the doctor was, peering at the injury intently above the rim of his glasses, his nose just a few inches away from Jaskier’s hand. Once he was done, the healer told him to bite down on a strap of leather while he sutured the stab wound in his palm. Even with the potion, that part hurt like a _motherfucker_. Jaskier couldn’t help but cry and jerk in his chair as he tried his best to keep his hand still, his arm pressed against the wood of the table. 

This was the hand he used to play cords. It had taken him _years_ of practice to be able to play the lute as fluidly as he did now, _years_ of practice to make his fingers learn to bend into the proper, unnatural, arched shapes required to play a melody. Jaskier had confidence in Chireadan’s skills and knew he would heal... But he still couldn’t help but feel depressed at the thought that it would take months before he’d be able to play a little tune on his beloved instrument, from beginning to end, without suffering greatly. He sighed, his shoulders drooping, his mind drifting away for the rest of the proceedings. Chireadan helped him take off his doublet and his shirt to get at the last wound in his shoulder. He cleaned it thoroughly and disinfected it, making Jaskier hiss in pain and grit his teeth through a new round of stitches, and then bandaged it. Finally, _finally_ it was over. Chireadan looked about as achingly exhausted as he felt, his face drawn and pale, his eyes bloodshot with lack of sleep. He put away his tools with slow movements, rolling his stiff neck and shoulders. 

The elf gave Jaskier a pillow and invited him to grab one of the remaining blankets in the trunks outside. Jaskier took the bedroll strapped to one of his bags, while Chireadan washed his face and took off his boots. The healer threw himself down on his bed and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He started snoring loudly not long after, which made Jaskier smile thinly. Weren’t elves supposed to be graceful? Chireadan could have woken up an ogroid with how much noise he was making. 

Jaskier placed his bedroll next to Geralt and lied down, tugging the blanket up to his neck. The wolf was deeply asleep, his chest rising and falling regularly as he breathed. He looked... fine. Battered and shabby, yes, his fur dirty and tangled up in knots, the creamy texture of bandages contrasting with his white coat -- but he was _alive_ , and _safe,_ and _cared for._ Given their delicate situation, it was more than Jaskier could have dared hope.

He rolled on his back, looking up at the ceiling of the tent. There was a large moth resting right above him, clinging to the cloth even as the fabric moved and fluttered in the light breeze. He heard the disagreeable buzz of a mosquito. Chireadan sighed and changed position in his sleep, his clothes rustling. 

It was peaceful. Jaskier didn’t understand why he felt so melancholic - like he was grieving for something he had not yet lost. 

“Good night, Geralt,” he murmured, and closed his eyes before new tears could fall. 

\---


	11. Enchantment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chireadan makes a call to a certain sorceress, asking for help.

Chireadan woke up the next morning, vaguely remembering an odd dream which involved dryads, a bookshop in the city of Velen, and the apple pie his _Amme_ used to bake for each of his birthdays when he was an elfling. He stretched, yawned loudly and got up, eager to start the day. 

The bard Jaskier was still asleep, curled into a foetus-like position on the floor, his blanket kicked to the side. He let out unintelligible mumbles from time to time. The wolf, however, was awake. He was staring at Chireadan with one unblinking, eerie golden eye, the lines of his body tense, poised to bolt at a moment's notice. He let out a growl when the elf came closer and snapped his jaw. 

Chireadan had to explain, patiently, where they were and what had happened, telling the wolf (Geralt, Jaskier had called him) of his profession and what he'd done so far to help them. Jaskier had said that the man had been cursed, and indeed Chireadan could see signs of human behaviour in the way the wolf seemed to listen attentively to his monologue, his eyes keen and focused, revealing intelligence and an emotional response. Geralt lowered his head onto his front paws when Chireadan was done talking, looking pacified for now. His tail even thumped half-heartedly on the floor when Chireadan brought him food and drink, and asked for permission to check his injuries. 

They seemed alright - the stitches had held up through the night, and Geralt hadn't tried to bite and lick at the itchy bandages like an animal would have. He whined when Chireadan gently palpated the area around the wound on his face. The healer gave him another bowl of water laced with a painkilling potion. Before they parted, he'd give a few of those vials to Jaskier for Geralt, to be administered at a seven-hour interval. Jaskier would be in pain as well, so Chireadan set to work grinding a mix of feverfew, camomile, ginger roots and willow barks into a bowl with a mortar. Once the substance was appropriately crushed, he put one quarter into a teapot and slipped the rest of it inside a linen bag, tied up with string. The blend would ease Jaskier's pain until he ran out. 

Behind him, Geralt was sniffing at his breakfast, so far untouched. Apparently satisfied with the dry ham and apple slices, he wolfed the whole thing down in three bites, licking his chops afterwards. Chireadan desperately wanted to try to pet him, scratch him behind those big, fluffy ears, but alas - he didn't think the touch would be welcome. 

Then Geralt made a soft questioning noise, like a muffled whimper, probing Jaskier's back with his nose and looking up at Chireadan. 

"Don't worry, he's alright," Chireadan reassured him. "I treated his wounds. He needs rest and care, just like you.” 

The wolf barked once, as if to say _thanks_. Then he yawned and curled into a ball, half-lidded eyes gazing down at Jaskier, his breaths deep and even, like he intended to watch over his companion even as fatigue forcibly pulled him under. Chireadan smiled in amusement. 

He took the empty bowls in front of Geralt and added them to the mounting pile of dirty dishes stacked in a wooden calabash, then walked outside to share breakfast with the rest of the crew. Roza had cooked some mouthwatering flatbread in a pan over the fire (Melitele bless her) which he slathered in apricot jam and ate with gusto. Much more energised now, he came back to his tent, got dressed, and started to pack his bags. The caravan was due to leave in a couple of hours, headed to the next major town of Gaylee to sell their wares and services. Chireadan hoped to reconnect with an old friend there, as well as replenish his supplies at the apothecary’s and the herbalist’s, and make door-to-door medical visits to earn some coin. Speaking of which, Jaskier had promised to pay. He trusted the man to keep his word, so he'd wait for him to broach the subject. 

His commotion woke Jaskier up. The bard rubbed at his eyes and tried to sit, only to cry out in pain as his bad shoulder objected to the sudden movement. He curled a hand over the bandaged wound and breathed out slowly, until the burning, penetrating sensation abated to something more bearable. Chireadan helped him sit up and offered him a glass of water. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier rasped. “Gods, I feel like _shit.”_

“I know,” Chireadan said. “It will pass. I’ve prepared an infusion for you, it should help with the pain.” 

“Please,” Jaskier said in a small voice. He angled his body towards Geralt, like a sunflower seeks the light. The wolf still looked asleep, but his ears twitched and his tail was flicking in the air. Jaskier moved forward on his knees and brushed his hand over the undamaged side of Geralt’s face. Bandages had been wrapped around his head to cover the injury on his cheek, and Geralt could only open one of his eyes. He let out a low rumble when seeing Jaskier was awake, and gave a lick to the bard’s hand. Jaskier chuckled and kissed the wolf’s forehead. “I am so, _so_ glad you’re alive, my friend.” His voice was soft, timid, possessed of the same elusive quality as a will-o-the-wisp fluttering in the woods. “I was so _afraid.”_

The wolf said nothing, but he leaned his forehead against Jaskier’s in an unmistakably comforting gesture. 

Chireadan let them have their reunion. He let the tea steep a bit longer than necessary, then poured it and stirred it uselessly with a spoon for a good five minutes. When the wolf and the bard separated, he brought Jaskier the mug and the vials of potion for Geralt, reiterating that they should help with the pain. Jaskier thanked him and stood up to drink his tea at the table.

“I believe the others are still having breakfast outside, if you want to join them,” Chireadan offered, but Jaskier shook his head. 

“Not hungry for the moment, thank you.” Jaskier took a sip of his tea, and curled one hand around the mug to warm up. “How much do I owe you?” 

“Seventy florens.” 

Jaskier nodded. It was a hefty sum, but it sounded more than fair for what Chireadan had done, and it wouldn’t make much of a dent in what he’d earned playing for the royal court. “My purse is in my bag, let me just…” 

Chireadan waved a hand. “Finish your tea, Jaskier. There’s no emergency.”

Jaskier finished his tea in contemplative silence, while Chireadan kept packing his bags. 

“The caravan will be leaving in a couple of hours,” the elf stated, and Jaskier immediately looked alarmed. “I _know_ travel would be hard on you and Geralt given your respective conditions, which is why I suggest that I call an… acquaintance, of mine. I can reach her by xenovox, a magical device. She’s a sorceress, and she’ll be able to not only make sure you recover well, but I believe she can help with Geralt’s curse. Plus, I reckon a cursed witcher may be of interest to her - interesting enough, perhaps, that she might not even charge you for her time. She’s been known for her generosity in cases that piqued her interest.” 

“Err. If you feel like that’s the best course of action, then sure…?” replied Jaskier uncertainly. 

“She is brilliant, Jaskier. Extremely talented and gifted when it comes to magic. If anyone can break that curse on your friend, it’s her.” Chireadan tried to make his voice sound casual, but he was all too aware of the no doubt besotted expression on his face that appeared whenever he thought of her. _Yennefer_... He sighed and crossed his arms, leaning against one of the wooden pillars inside the tent. “The other options are to either go your own way, or follow us to the next town. But as a doctor, I really don’t think it is wise to walk for days on end, not when you’re still healing.” 

Jaskier winced at the thought. Indeed. It couldn’t be advisable. As for the second option, they had nowhere to go, and even if they did, Geralt really wasn’t fit to travel. Too many injuries. Jaskier still wanted to protect him, care for him. Hadn’t the whole point of this been to find a damned cure for Geralt, so he could be himself again? Here it was, offered to them on a silver platter !... At least if Chireadan hadn’t exaggerated the sorceress’ skills. The elf was infatuated with her - that much was clear - but so far he had also proven that he was someone serious, clever, and very competent at his job; in short, he was _reliable_. So if he praised her, Jaskier elected to believe those praises were based on solid truths. 

Geralt seemed to have reached the same conclusion. He met Jaskier’s gaze and lowered his head in an affirmative nod. Jaskier nodded back and stood up, wiping his hands over his pants (gods, he really needed to get changed.) “Alright,” he said evenly. He was quite curious to meet this sorceress now, whoever she was. “If she agrees, then we’ll go with her. I don’t think I’ve ever met an actual sorceress in my life… I mean, of course I’ve seen druids and village healers -- there was a very nice one we met with Geralt some time ago, a little hobbit, isn’t that right Geralt? And I also met a cottage witch, once, but sorceresses and mages always seemed to evade me." 

Geralt barked at the sudden vitality in Jaskier’s speech, his tail wagging on the blanketed floor. 

“... I asked around for a healer, because at this point I was in a _lot_ of pain, and the apothecary had been useless. A young man told me to find a certain Magdalene. Said she was a witch and that she could help. So I ask around for this Magdalene, and they direct me to the house on top of the hill. I go there, knock, and a scantily clad lady opens the door and drags me inside. Turns out, my dear fellows, that Magdalene only wanted to _roleplay_ as a witch, and as such had acquired a bit of a... reputation, shall we say, in the area.” Jaskier paused. “Sleeping with her _did_ cure my headache, though, surprisingly." 

“That is an absurd story,” Chireadan commented. He was emptying one of the bags that he’d already packed, searching for the box that contained the xenovox (and cursing his own disorganization.) 

“Yet it is the truth. She was very nice, far from the weirdest person I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.” 

“I don’t doubt it. Aah, there it is!” Chireadan held up the box and opened it, retrieving the apparatus, but he stilled just before clicking it open. He passed his hand through his hair, adjusted his collar, picked at a loose button on his leather jacket. He tucked his hair behind his ear, cleared his throat and licked his lips. “Ahem...” 

Jaskier raised an eyebrow in amusement. Chireadan was actually _nervous_ , the kind of nervous one only becomes when trying to court someone they like. The bard resisted the urge to laugh, knowing that he acted just as ridiculous and detail-oriented about his appearance when he was the one concerned. It was still funny to observe from afar, though, like one of those elaborate mating rituals displayed by colorful birds in season. 

“Yennefer?” Chireadan called, talking into the xenovox. Next to Jaskier, Geralt suddenly got up, and barked loudly. “Yennefer, can you hear me?” 

“WOOF!” 

“Geralt!” Jaskier scolded. “What's gotten into you ? Let the man speak!” 

Geralt padded closer to Jaskier and keened, the sound unmistakably sad. Jaskier sat down again so Geralt could lay his head in his lap. He stroked his forehead gently, trying to calm him down. He couldn't help but get the impression that Geralt suddenly had a _lot_ of things to say, but as he was still stuck as a wolf, he could not express himself. It had to be extremely frustrating.

“Sssh, it’s alright. She may be able to help you, Geralt, we have to talk to her." Geralt whimpered again, agitated. Then he froze as a feminine, disembodied voice echoed around them. 

_“Chireadan._ ” The tone was refined and disinterested. Jaskier could picture a bored woman looking at her manicured fingernails.

“Yennefer, thank the gods. I need your help.” 

_“What for?”_ She drawled _. “Because the last time you said that, it was just an excuse to give me flowers and invite me to dinner. I’ve told you I’m not interested in our relationship being anything other than strictly professional.”_

“And I respect that,” said Chireadan dryly, taking the blow in stride. “Which is why this is a purely professional call. I have two patients here that I cannot look after for an extended period of time. One of them is a bard by the name of Jaskier, the other one a cursed witcher by the name of Geralt. Do you think you could take them in? I’ll owe you.” 

At the mention of Geralt’s name, Yennefer sucked in a breath, audible even from the other end of the xenovox. What followed was a weird moment of silence. Jaskier was just starting to wonder if the connection had been lost when Yennefer spoke up again, her voice considerably warmer this time. Geralt’s ears perked up, and he left Jaskier’s side to stand in the middle of the tent, facing Chireadan. 

_“I need to see them,”_ the sorceress said. _“I’ll open a portal - step back.”_

“Thank you,” Chireadan said with relief, and did as she asked. 

With a muffled, reverberating sound, a ring of pure magic came to life into mid-air, sweeping brown dust off the floor. Out of the portal stepped a woman, clad in all black and white: she wore high-heeled, black leather boots with silver buckles that came up to her knee, black and white velvet pants, a white undershirt with a black corset to highlight her curves, and a black fur boa. Her clothes were quality, made of rich material, luxurious leather and delicate lace and shiny silk. Her hair was long and well-taken care of, full curls cascading down her back below her shoulders, and jewels glimmered at her ears and neck. She smiled thinly at Chireadan, her lips painted red, her eyes a stunning, striking shade of violet. In short, she was gorgeous, and incredibly intimidating. Jaskier straightened up when she turned to look in his direction, feeling somewhat cowed by her presence. 

But Yennefer barely spared him a glance, immediately focusing on Geralt instead. She looked at the wolf with dismay, replaced quickly by something akin to exasperated fondness. Geralt made an interrogative sound, and Yennefer came closer. “Really, Geralt… I leave you alone for a couple of years and _this_ is what happens? Who did this to you?” 

Geralt growled in response, then barked, his body language quickly shifting from nervousness to joy. Yennefer shook her head and strode towards him. The wolf met her halfway, his tail wagging excitedly, and Jaskier watched in disbelief, amusement, and a teeny weeny amount of jealousy as Geralt happily greeted her. He curled his body around her legs, and she stroked his head with a laugh. Yennefer gasped in surprise as he suddenly stood upright on his back legs and placed his paws on her shoulders to give her the wolf version of a hug. He tried to lick her face and she recoiled and stepped back, pushing him away. Geralt made a sound that almost sounded like a _snicker_ , and he went for Jaskier next, but his steps faltered; he yelped in pain and collapsed onto his left side, his injured body protesting all the violent actions. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried, and hurried to kneel next to him, worry painted on his features. But although the wolf was lying down, his tail was still thumping, and his eyes were bright with happiness. He moved his head to track Yennefer as she also sat by his side, then whined when they both started petting him at the same time -- Jaskier stroking his head while Yennefer rubbed the fur on his chest, carefully avoiding the bandages. Geralt closed his eyes and gave a low rumble of contentment, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. 

“Well, I assume it would be futile to ask if you two know each other,” said Jaskier, thoughtful. “I’ve never seen him be so comfortable with anyone except me since we met.” 

“How did you even find him?” She asked, smiling as she scratched one of Geralt’s ears. “We usually exchange correspondence, more or less regularly, but I hadn't heard from him in weeks.” 

_“Awoo,”_ Geralt said. 

“I think the right question here is how he found me. You see, I was busy being my bardic self, sleeping peacefully in the woods after a day of travel, when Geralt here woke me up by drooling all over my face and _growling_ menacingly - I’d never had such a fright in my life! But I quickly realized something wasn’t right, and decided to do everything I could to help. It’s easy to get over your fear when the object of it lets you use him as a pillow at night.” The corner of Yennefer’s lips twitched. “He may look scary, but deep down he’s a big softie.” 

She snorted. “I truly doubt anyone who knows Geralt would describe him as a _softie_.” 

Jaskier looked at her pointedly, then gestured at the huge wolf sprawled in both their laps, as if to say, _if not softie then why this?_ And Geralt _wooed_ feebly, content. 

“Fine,” Yennefer conceded, looking more and more amused. “Maybe he did get soft while he was with you. I’ve never known him to be this cuddly and openly affectionate, after all.” 

Geralt barked in protest. Yennefer closed her eyes to concentrate, and then she nodded at him. “Point taken. I’m not exactly the cuddly type either.” 

“Wait, did you just... Did you just read his thoughts? You can do that?” 

“I can, yes. Do you have anything to say to Jaskier, Geralt?” 

Jaskier froze, waiting with bated breath. Yennefer hummed and nodded once more. “He says _thank you, my friend_ _. For everything."_

Her voice was soft and understanding. 

“Ah…” Jaskier’s heart swelled painfully in his chest, full of joy and pride. He flushed and rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed and terribly pleased. “You’re welcome, Geralt.”

“To answer your question, yes, me and Geralt have known each other a long time. We met in Rinde, a few years ago. I owned a shop where I sold my services and brews as a sorceress, and Geralt came to me because he suffered from terrible insomnia.” Yennefer stood up, brushing her hands down the front of her clothes to get rid of Geralt’s fur. “But that is a story for another time, I believe. I can sense Chireadan is about to throw us out.” The elf protested, but it was weak. He _had_ said the caravan was on a schedule, after all. “I have a home in Beauclair, we’ll stay there while you both recover. Grab your things, bard.” 

Jaskier winked at Chireadan, who looked terribly flustered at having been called out. “It’s alright, really, I completely understand - you’ve done a lot for us already, we’ll get out of your air. Although, err, can anyone help me with packing? My shoulder...” 

“Which things are yours?” Yennefer said. 

“The bags over there, the bedroll, and my lute. There’s also my horse outside, a bay colored gelding. And Chireadan, I also need to pay you." 

“I’ll get the horse,” Chireadan offered. “I know what he looks like. Just put the money on the table.” 

“I feel like Pegasus won’t be too happy to go through a portal,” Jaskier said worryingly. “He might kick out.”

“I’m a sorceress, I’ll placate him if needed. Geralt actually hates portals too.” 

“Do you?” Jaskier said, looking down at Geralt. The wolf flattened his ears against his head and showed his teeth. “Wow, I guess you do. Well that’s not very reassuring.” 

“First time?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

“You’ll be fine. Might throw up a little on arrival, but that’s to be expected.”

“Oh gods.” 

“The money?” Yennefer prompted. 

“Right, right. If you could help me with the bedroll, that’d be...” Yennefer waved a hand, and the thin mattress rolled itself up tightly, while his purse flew out of one bag to land on the wooden table, and his other bag buckled itself up with a click. “... Well, that is one hell of a neat trick.” 

“It’s magic.” 

“Why, I should have been a mage,” Jaskier muttered. “Never do chores in my life.” He opened his purse one-handed and started counting out seventy florens. Behind him, there was a yelp as the blankets Geralt was sitting on were tugged away by an invisible force. They folded themselves into neat squares in thin air, before dropping to a pile on Chireadan’s bed. “Sixty-five, seventy… There we go.” He closed the purse and turned back towards Yennefer, who’d slung his lute case over her shoulder. “Hey hey hey - careful with that! That’s my baby! Give it back!” 

“I thought your shoulder was hurt?” 

“I have one _other_ , perfectly _good_ , functional _shoulder_ , thank you very much.” Yennefer rolled her eyes and handed him the lute. Jaskier slung the case on the left side, trying to stifle his cry of pain without success. Yennefer didn’t comment on it. She took the rest of his things and threw them - threw ! the disrespect - through a new, whirling portal. There was the clip-clop of hooves outside, and Chireadan entered the tent leading a fully tacked Pegasus by the reins. As expected, the horse came to a halt as soon as he felt the sulfuric tinge of _chaos_ within the tent. He tugged on the reins and started to step back, snorting in fear, while Chireadan held him back. 

Yennefer murmured something in Elder, and Pegasus stopped neighing, but his flanks were heaving with rapid breaths and his eyes were panicked. Jaskier shushed him, stroking his neck gently until he’d calmed down enough to follow Yennefer. Her spell kept him placid - smothering his animal instincts to run. The sorceress walked into the portal and disappeared with Pegasus, leaving Jaskier behind with Chireadan and Geralt. Geralt followed her: he paused just before the portal, his tail tucked between his legs, then moved forward with resignation. 

It was Jaskier’s turn. He held out his hand for Chireadan to shake. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, truly. I really don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t been there.” 

“I’m sure you would have been fine,” replied the elf humbly, shaking his hand. “And I’m sure you will make a full recovery. Tell Geralt I wish him good luck on the Path, and that I hope he recovers well from the curse. Goodbye, Jaskier."

“I will - thank you again. Goodbye, have a nice day, and… all that. Right. Going now.” Jaskier turned around to face the portal, his hair standing on end. “Oh, dear. Here goes nothing.” He squeezed his eyes shut and stepped forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy wolf attack video :  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xti4TcrwBYY&t=16s :D 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it this chapter! leave a comment and/or kudos if you did <3
> 
> Little rambles :  
> \- I liked writing Chireadan. I think he's quite nice. In the first draft for this chapter, Yennefer thought he was making a booty call and she was on board with that. But it really didn't feel right, so I had to modify it. Sorry, Chireadan :(  
> \- Geralt getting cuddles from Yen and Jaskier was very self indulgent.  
> \- I keep forgetting Pegasus exists - like, i'll be all 'yay, i'm done with this chapter, time to edit!' and then suddenly go _oooh shit the horse_ XD  
> \- I totally pictured Yennefer as Mary Poppins when she packed Jaskier's things with ~ magic ~ 
> 
> That's it ! Thank you for reading, see you next time <3


End file.
